


drive to the ocean

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Coming of Age, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, Oral Sex, POV Billy Hargrove, Porn Magazines, Post-Season/Series 03, Road Trips, Sappy, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Tattoos, Trauma, visual impairment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22310041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Three months after Starcourt and a month after being released from the hospital, Billy can't breathe. Steve leaves the mall with his sights on a better future, but the lingering trauma leaves him with a blind eye and no hope. They aren't friends, not by a longshot. But maybe, through the worst of it all, they can start over and learn to heal, one step at a time.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 17
Kudos: 203





	1. Part I

_I'll drive through the mountains, the crumbling west_  
_I'll sing like the whales, before man was a pest_  
_Radio transistor, my friend by my side_  
_I'll drive to the ocean, the ocean I'll drive_

Autumn sweeps in faster in Hawkins than it does in San Luis Obispo, where the salt rushes in off the ocean and the temperature stays constant and predictable all year round. No longer does Billy bask in the summer breeze rushing in through open windows, nor does he sleep in nothing but his underwear behind an unlocked door. In California, he used to lounge, sometimes on the beach, other times in his room with every window in the house open, the draft keeping the house cool.

In Hawkins, the wind bites, and the nights fall later, sunlight dragging on for as long as it can manage. In October’s darkness, Billy lies awake with the covers drawn over his head, a failing attempt to stave off the chill creeping through the thin window panes. He remembers the ocean, the rolling waves, the salt on his tongue, the sun on his skin. Two different worlds, trapped within the same body—he’d give anything to rip them both apart, if only to ease the pain.

Breathing doesn’t help calm his nerves anymore, not like it used to, when his bedroom had been a place of solitude, of peace. No one would follow him in there. Even his father, the bastard that he is, respected personal boundaries—the rest of the house, though, was always fair game. Presently, it reminds Billy of a jail cell, the four off-white walls undecorated and left bare, the dark curtains blocking out any trace of light. No clothes strewn about, no books or magazines left on the dresser, no cassettes flung around.

Everything exactly where it’s supposed to be—and desperately, Billy wants to destroy it all. A month after his release, and the threat of violence still looms like fog, wafting into every corner. The sight of Neil, wherever he is, sends Billy’s stomach into his shoes, keeps his eyes glued to the floor. Out of shame, of fear. Whether or not things will return to the way they were remains to be seen, but most nights, long after the final bell has rung and his homework has been finished, Billy waits, like Neil will storm in and _talk_ to him, with his arms crossed and brow pinched, lingering in the doorway while Billy shrinks into himself.

He hasn’t smiled in months. Not since July, not since Halloween. Hawkins sapped the life out of him in every way it could, and Neil fed him up to the beast, dangled him on the proverbial stick and left him to die. All without a single punch thrown—all with his words, and nothing else.

Sometimes, Billy wishes Neil would hit him, just once, just to snap the tension coiled between them. Nothing ever comes, and he walks on eggshells for nothing, waiting for the inevitable day, the day that won’t come soon enough.

Sucking in a breath, Billy pulls the covers down to expose his face, hissing through his teeth at the sudden chill. Someone must’ve left a window open; if his bones didn’t ache, he might get up and find the source, but the world weighs heavy on his shoulders, bears him down into the mattress. Tears poor in the corners of his eyes. Neil took his prescription, said he needed to deal with the pain without opiates or whatever the doctors gave him. Now, he needs them more than ever, to numb the ache even the strongest painkillers can’t touch.

Night hangs just outside of his bedroom window, calling him, beckoning with its gentle light. The stars wait for him, twinkling just out of sight. If he wanted, he could leave in December. He has enough credits to graduate early, could avoid the whole mess of walking across the stage with no one to clap for him, or to even care. All he is is a pretty face and a bad attitude with scars to match. As soon as he crosses the Hawkins city line, everyone will forget him—no one will remember the lone year he spent here, fueled by adrenaline and fear and desperation.

And he would never forget this flyover city, try as he might.

Closing his eyes, Billy tucks an arm under his pillow and breathes, tries to sleep. Footsteps pad gently across the hardwood floors outside, too light to be Neil, too measured. Still, his heart races, and fear grips him, sitting like a stone in his stomach. His door opens, clicks shut; bare feet cross the room, and a weight sags the edge of his mattress. Nails rake through his hair, starting at his temple and leading to his nape.

Not Max—Susan, then. Billy wants to hate her, wants to scream at her until he’s hoarse, but he can’t. Not here, and not any other time, not while he’s under this roof. Tears spill onto the pillow, muted by the dark of the room. He hates the dark, hates how the shadows grow blacker, deeper.

‘ _There’s nothing fucking there_ ,’ Neil told him on the night of his twelfth birthday, and slammed the door shut, leaving Billy bathed in the dark in the midst of a thunderstorm, no light to see by, no place to hide.

“I can’t say I know how alone you feel right now,” Susan whispers, brushing away a stray tear in the corner of Billy’s nose. Her knuckles brush his cheek, sweeping into his curls. “But I want you to know, I’m here if you need someone to talk to. And Max too.” She stops, sighs through her nose. “Linda at church, she’s praying for you. She’s a good friend, you can trust her. She’s living at the monastery a few towns over, but if you need—”

“God ain’t gonna fix me,” Billy mumbles, his words slurred with exhaustion. “Like to see him try.”

Susan chuckles. Eyes closed, Billy pictures her shaking her head. “All I’m saying is, if you need anybody, you have me, and if you want to put things into perspective, there’s always the church. And, I’m sure your friends would help, if you let them.”

 _I don't have friends_ , Billy thinks, curling into himself. _They wouldn’t wanna see me like this, anyway._

Slowly, rhythmically, Susan continues to stroke through Billy’s hair while he weeps, soundless, face buried in his pillow. At some point, he nods off, face wet with tears, and wakes up in the morning to an empty bed and an even emptier house. Maybe it was just a dream, he thinks, his brain’s attempt to provide the comfort he could never in his wildest dreams receive. Though, squinting in the newly burgeoning light, Billy spots a medallion on his nightstand, polished silver with an angel engraved on the surface, carrying a staff and standing on a fish.

Holding the pendant between his fingertips, Billy flips it over, reading _Pray For Us_ engraved into the back.

Not a dream, then—but why did Susan leave that, of all things?

-+-

During the weekends, Hawkins might as well be a regular city, with its permanent residents milling about from shop to shop, parked outside of the drive-in or theater on either end of town, or chatting up waitresses at every restaurant, from fast food to family-owned. With the monstrosity of the mall gone, all Hawkins has left is the local fare, and people flock to it in droves, presumably to get outside before winter barrels in and drowns them in snow.

Snow is a distant thing, at least Billy hopes. For now, the sun hangs bright in the late-morning sky, pleasantly warm where it meets his skin. Max insisted on ice cream on the way to the arcade, and Billy tagged along for once, the need to _drive_ itching under his skin. Now, if only he could pay attention to what Max was saying, his focus more on absorbing as much sunlight as he can than listening.

“Neil gave me extra cash this morning,” Max says, stabbing at her banana split with a plastic spoon. Leaning against the side of the Camaro, Billy looks down at her, then over to the arcade, where teenagers loiter both inside and out, some screaming, others discussing games he couldn’t care anything about. Not anymore, at least. “Don’t think he realized it, but I got another five if you wanna go buy something, or whatever.” She pulls a crumpled five dollar bill from her wallet, shoving it into his jacket pocket.

Worry pangs in his heart, deepening his frown. “He’s gonna notice when it’s not there,” he says, to Max’s shrug. “Who do you think he’s gonna blame that on?”

“You never leave your room,” Max counters and shoves a mass of banana and chocolate fudge into her mouth. “I think you’re safe. Maybe he lost it between the office and the car. Could happen.”

Plausible—still, Billy chews his lip in worry. “When’re your little shits gonna be here, anyway?”

Max rolls her eyes, scooping up the last bit of ice cream from the checkerboard bowl. “Around one, I don’t know.” Billy checks his watch—12:57. “Did you know Steve’s blind now?”

Billy nearly chokes on his own spit. Since when did that happen? The last Billy saw of him was on the day he finally left the hospital, purely by coincidence. They walked out at the same time, and Steve was wearing an eyepatch, and— _oh_. “Like, blind blind?”

“In one eye.” Max points to her right eye with her spoon. “Something about some Russian punching him in the face, during the whole…” She waves her hands. Billy wishes he didn't understand. “Just, try not to harass him about it, please?”

A year ago, and Billy absolutely would have, just to get a rise out of Steve, knock him down a few pegs, let him know who the real boss was. Steve would’ve fought back—but then again, that’s probably how he got into this mess in the first place. Vividly, Billy remembers the blind rage, remembers slamming his fist into Harrington’s face, repeatedly, until Steve screamed. Guilt weighs on his conscience for a multitude of things—that night easily ranks in his top five.

And if he in any way contributed to it…

“Relax,” Billy manages, eventually, his silence dragging on too long for Max’s apparent liking. “We’re cool now. Don’t give yourself a hernia.”

“Gross,” Max scoffs and elbows him, all with a grin on her face. A grin that then falls, replaced by sadness in her eyes. “Are you okay? After last week—”

Last week—last week, Billy doesn’t want to talk about. “I’m fine,” he lies, rubs his forearms. What she can’t see can’t hurt her. “Really. I’m… I’m gonna be okay.”

The sight of a burgundy BMW pulling in across the lot drags Billy out of his thoughts, and an entire onslaught of teens pour out of three of the four doors. Max leaves to join them, throwing out her trash as she goes. Billy doesn’t watch the four of them shove their way into the arcade. Rather, he spots Steve stepping out of the driver’s side, hanging onto the door a little too long. All leather jacket and jeans, Billy watches him slam the door closed, watches Steve walk with measured steps in his direction. His eyepatch is dyed bright red.

It’s a good color on him, much better than the plain black Billy last saw him with.

Thumbs in his pockets, Billy leans back, crosses one foot over the other, all for show. Under his shirt, his ribs ache, heart pounding. If only he could smoke. “So, blind, huh?” he says in lieu of hello, catching Steve by surprise.

Steve almost trips over his own foot. “Yeah, kinda,” he answers, turns around. It takes him a moment before he leans back, falling into the Camaro rougher than intended. “Depth perception’s shit. I fell down the stairs last week.”

Billy hisses; Steve chuckles, nudges his shoulder. “Must suck,” Billy says.

Shrugging, Steve looks up at the sky. “Thought I’d have a big black spot, y’know? Instead, I can only see one hand in front of my face. I can see you, ‘cause you’re right there, but if you were over here,” he points at the empty space to Steve’s right, “I wouldn't even know you’re there.”

 _Never knew I was there anyway_ , Billy wants to say. They haven’t had a conversation in a year, aside from the one instance in the waiting room, and the day Steve brought Max to see him, right after they took him off the ventilator. Any other time, and Steve never looked his way. And worst of all, Billy deserves to be ignored, after everything he put Steve through. But he never wanted to be left alone, not like this.

They could start over, though. Scarred and battered, they could try to rebuild what never was.

“Hey,” Billy says, clearing his throat. “You wanna drive somewhere?”

Visibly, Steve deflates and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I could use a distraction.”

Whatever that means, Billy ignores it and rounds the Camaro. Steve slumps into the passenger seat, and only relaxes once Billy pulls out onto the road at a respectable speed. He could peel out, put on a show, but Steve wouldn’t appreciate that, and honestly, Billy doesn’t have it in him anymore. Driving is fun, eases his mind—dying, not so much.

For a while, all he does is wind around Hawkins, windows down and radio playing some old country station, the songs barely audible over the wind. Steve’s hair rustles; Billy aches to touch it, to reach out and cover Steve’s thigh. Not that he hasn’t thought about it before. Before the mall, Steve was all he thought about, the pining leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. After… After, he never thought he’d be here, never thought about what his next steps might be if he got Steve alone in the front seat.

No matter what he wants, he can’t have it. Can’t leave for California, can’t leave Max behind. Can’t have Steve, worst of all.

_Fuck responsibility_ , he thinks, bitter.

A few miles outside of Hawkins is an abandoned farm property, one of the places Billy frequented in the spring, when all he needed was a few hours of quiet in a house that wasn’t his own. He pulls off of the two-lane and onto a dirt road, dust kicking up behind the tires. Gravel crunches, sweet music to his ears.

Steve straightens up, his spine popping when he stretches, and glances over to look at Billy, squinting in the sunlight. “You’re not taking me out here to murder me, are you?”

Billy snorts a laugh, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “Too much effort. Figured we just get out of town for a while, how’s that sound?”

Humming, Steve sits back and lifts the patch enough to rub his eye. “Sounds like a plan.”

The main house is about a quarter of a mile into the field, past a small thicket of trees and a busted windmill. Billy pulls around the back and parks under what used to be a carport, the roof blown off sometime in the past and probably littering someone else’s property. Shutting off the engine, Billy barely waits for Steve to unbuckle before he steps out of the front seat, heading toward the busted back door and stepping inside.

Everything is as he left it a few weeks ago: dust coats the tables and countertops; the couch is tipped over onto its side in the living room, holes scorched into the cushions, one of which is Billy’s doing; rugs cover termite-eaten hardwoods, stained with water and decades’ worth of mold. The floor sags in places, and a crack splits the ceiling in the kitchen.

The staircase, somehow, remain pristine. As always, he treads cautiously up to the second floor, ignoring the creaks and groans of each step. Steve follows a few steps behind, and Billy waits for him at the top landing, watching him grip the handrail and count his steps. All calculated, all preventative. Billy’s heart aches.

As soon as Steve joins him, Billy leads him to one of the two bedrooms, this one the only one with furniture. A wrought iron bed sits in the middle of the room, the mattress well-used but still functional, with linens Billy dug out of the hallway closet, the only ones that didn't reek of mothballs. “I come up here a few times a month,” he says and sits on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots. Steve watches him from the doorway, a frown on his lips. “Can only handle so much noise in a day.”

Steve nods, the tension in his shoulders lessening. “So you just come up here to what, be alone?”

“Sounds nice, doesn’t it?” Billy offers a grin and kicks his shoes off. The mattress greets him with a cloud of dust, but supports his weight regardless; a spring digs into his calf. Patting the other side, Billy tucks an arm under his head, closing his eyes. “Come here. Or do I gotta tell you twice?”

All Billy hears is a sigh before Steve, resigned, joins him. The bedframe whines when Steve sits, then lies back, the bedframe rattling. For a while, Billy just breathes, listening to the quiet of the afternoon outside, to Steve’s steady inhale, exhale. The pain in his bones lessens ever so slightly, solely from having a warm body so close, close enough to touch if he wanted. If Steve would let him, most of all.

“What time do you have to pick up Max?” Steve mumbles, low.

Billy clenches his fist atop the covers, then relaxes, unfurling them. Steve’s pinky brushes his own; he doesn’t mention it. “Four,” he answers, sniffs. “Maybe five. Something on your mind there?”

Steve shakes his head, sighs through his nose. “If I fall asleep on you, it’s your fault,” is all he says, and Billy laughs, then coughs. _Dust_ , he reasons, not because happiness makes his lungs spasm. “Keith’s had me closing up for two weeks straight. Think he’s violating some sort of labor law or whatever. Robin always gets to leave early, and what do I get?”

“Insomnia?” Billy asks, turns his head.

Steve rolls his eyes—eye, really, the only one Billy can see. “Never really did sleep much in the first place. House is too quiet, and every noise sounds like someone’s crashing through a window.”

 _Huh_. “High life ain’t so grand, now, is it?”

A breath, long and exhausted. “I’m thinking about renting a place with Robin. It’d be nice to have someone around that isn’t just me.”

Billy makes a noncommittal noise, reaches over to pat Steve’s wrist. After a long, pregnant minute, he sits up to shrug off his jacket, tossing it to the floor. Only belatedly does he remember the gauze wrapped around his forearm from wrist to elbow, and thankfully, Steve doesn’t question it. He does stare, though, brow pinched. Absently, Billy toys with the dual pendants draped over his breastbone, just for something to do that isn’t existing in shared silence. His old Saint Mary, silver tarnished with age, sits warm between his fingertips; the other, if he keeps it that long, will look the same in about a year, and during that time, he’ll have to research just what it means, and why Susan gave it to him in the first place—

“I thought about it one night,” Steve says through a yawn. He rubs his eye underneath the patch. “What it’d be like if I just… wasn’t here. If I fell asleep and never woke up. And like, my parents are gone all the time, so they wouldn’t find my body for weeks, maybe even a month, and like, would they even care? I told my dad about my eye, and he just gave me this look, like I’m defective because I have the depth perception of an armadillo.”

Steve laughs, covers his mouth. “I didn’t fall down the stairs,” he continues, strained. “I jumped. And after my head stopped spinning, I just laid there until the phone rang, and it’s either sit there and wallow or move on.”

“Shit,” Billy huffs. He takes Steve’s wrist in hand. Steve doesn’t push him away. “Did you tell anyone? Even that Robin chick? Hell, even the little runts—”

“What am I supposed to say?” Rolling over, Steve faces him, head pillowed on his bicep; hair falls into his face, covering his patch. “They don’t… They got their own problems, man. I’m not putting my bullshit on them, I mean, they’re just… They’re kids. Last thing they need to think about is how their babysitter wants to kill himself at night, ‘cause then they’d never get out of my hair, and that just makes it worse—”

Billy shushes him with a finger pressed to Steve’s lips. Steve frowns. “I’m not giving you my razors, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says. Vehemently, Steve shakes his head and opens his mouth, when Billy cuts him off again. “You have friends, Harrington. People that care about you. Take advantage of that while you got it.”

Steve sighs, warm against Billy’s finger. “You do too,” he says, then rolls onto his back. An obvious lie—the only person Billy has is himself and what remains of his sanity. “You got Max, and I’ve tried calling you, but no one ever answers—”

“Dad unhooked the phone,” Billy grouses. He presses his palms into his eyes until sparks bloom in his vision. Steve tried to call him—Steve _cares_? “I’d ask how you got my number, but Max probably spilled the beans months ago.”

“Technically your step-mom gave it to me,” Steve says with a shrug. “I’m just saying. You need to talk to someone instead of taking it out on yourself. It’s not like I got anywhere else to be, anyway.” _Please talk to me_ , rings out, loud and clear.

Somewhere off in the distance, a semi downshifts as it heads into town. A gust catches the windmill just right, the rusted blades whirling with a screech. Steve jumps; Billy bolds him down with a hand to his stomach. “I graduate in December,” Billy says, catching Steve’s interest. “Office screwed up my classes, so all I have left are my cores. Last couple years, I’ve been saving up, and I’ve got a few hundred stashed under my mattress.”

“Are you moving back? To California?” Steve asks, sounding smaller than Billy has ever heard him.

And Billy nods, hating the tremble in his voice. “I can’t… I can’t stand it here. These people, this city, it’s not my home. And no offense, but if I have to shovel the driveway one more time, I’m gonna snap.”

Steve laughs in agreement, rattling the bedframe. “Wish I could leave,” he admits, then reaches up for his patch.

Billy catches his wrist before he makes it, slowly pulling it away. Leaning up on an elbow, Billy lifts the patch up enough to see the reddened scar marring Steve’s brow, and the blown pupil staring back at him, not really fixated on anything. Honestly, he expected to see an empty hole, or a cloud instead of raw umber looking back at him. “It’s not bad,” Billy says, lowering the patch. “Really can’t see anything?”

“As much as I could before,” Steve says. A flush rises high on his cheeks when Billy brackets his head with both elbows. Never once does Steve try to leave, nor does he complain. “I need a vacation.”

“Yeah?” Billy leans in closer, watches Steve’s eye go cross. “Where d’you wanna go, baby?”

Half of him expects Steve to laugh and shove him off. The other half flutters when Steve asks, “Tell me about California?”

And with barely any prompting, Billy does, the words spilling out before he can even think. Falling onto his side, Billy tells him about the feel of sand between his toes, long summer afternoons spent on his board in the surf. About day trips into Los Angeles, of visiting his cousins in Bakersfield and Victorville. About walking Sunset Boulevard with his friends, the month before he moved to Hawkins. The tattoo he got on his hip, a Celtic cross inked low enough that no one would ever see unless they were looking for it.

All the while, Steve listens, nodding on occasion or laughing when the moment calls for it; at some point, he begins to stroke through Billy’s hair, and Billy lets him, still talking while Steve pets behind his ear, nails tracing down to his nape. It’s been years since another boy has touched him like this, with reverence and compassion and lacking the heat of lust. Given the chance, and Billy would let him do it all day, if it meant he could live in this moment forever, a few fleeting minutes where the pain doesn’t feel so permanent, where he can burrow into the sheets and rest, warmth bleeding into his skin.

The words stop after a while, his consciousness tinged black at the edges. Steve’s hand stills, fingers covering the tattoo on Billy’s bicep. Warm breath meets his own, lulling him to sleep.

When he wakes a few hours later, Steve is still there, though he’s scrambling, saying something about being late, about sleeping too long—

And Billy’s stomach drops.

 _So much for being alive_ , he thinks, and belatedly, he hopes that in heaven, he’ll remember Steve like this.

-+-

He had it coming, anyway.

The tension snaps like a bowstring, splintering and fraying at the edges. After it’s said and done, after he crawls up the stairs and back into his room, Billy lies on the floor, silent, motionless, listening to the foundation settle, the floors creaking. Max cries in the room across the hall. Susan doesn’t speak. The television flips on in the living room.

Blood spills from his nose, thick and cloying, clogging his sinuses. A bruise blooms on his jaw, and his molars hurt, hopefully not cracked; he can’t afford the dental bill, and leaving the house is out of the question. Instead, Billy lies in a puddle of his own blood, the pain too much to bear. Breathing hurts—existing, even more. If he dies tonight, he can at least say he died with dignity, that he threw the first punch and broke his old man’s nose. No doubt he’ll come back later to finish the job—and hopefully, Billy will be dead by then.

No such luck. A series of faint knocks tap against his window; his bedroom door opens, then closes, Max’s tennis shoes passing by to let whoever it is inside. “Billy?” Max whispers and kneels in front of him, her fingers guiding his face off the floor. Another figure looms—Billy would recognize those hands anywhere. “Billy, Steve’s gonna take you to the hospital, okay? Billy, please—”

“’M fine,” Billy says, slurred. Tears sting in his eyes; Max cries right along with him, wiping the blood from his face. “Fucker stabbed me.”

Max heaves out a sob; her hand falls to the bloodied portion of his shirt, palm coming away red. “Billy, no, no—”

“You gotta stand up,” Steve says, gets a hand under Billy’s armpit. Together with Max’s help, they get him upright, and Steve takes his weight with ease, slinging an arm around his back. “Hey there, big guy.”

“Fuck,” is all Billy manages, before black surrounds him, sends him to the floor.

After that, he remembers the cold. Remembers the night air on his skin, warm hands pressing into his ribs, bright lights in his eyes. Consciousness wanes, only to resurface, but not enough to let him open his eyes. Anesthesia takes him while someone—surgeons, probably, or someone with a healthy collection of chloroform—knits his lung back together. Another scar to add to his collection—another reason he can’t go back to that house.

He can never go home again.

-+-

Steve wheels Billy down the hall the following afternoon, his pace slow and steady while he whistles to himself. The overhead lights hurt Billy’s eyes, try as he might to ignore them; if only he had his sunglasses, and a fresh pair of clothes. The most Steve grabbed on their way out of the window, apparently, was Billy’s wallet and the cash under his mattress, the two most essential things in his life. Not jewelry, not clothes, not even a toothbrush.

Just identification and money. All he’s ever needed in the past, and all he needs now.

“Think I’m officially out of commission,” Billy rasps a while later, sitting in the passenger seat of Steve’s BMW, Hawkins Memorial Hospital thankfully in the rearview. “Don’t think coach is gonna let me play with a fucking gut wound.”

“One, it’s to your ribs,” Steve snarks back. As soon as they reach the main road, he shoves his sunglasses on. “And two, it’s probably for the best, considering.”

“Really?” Glaring, Billy flips him off; Steve can’t see him anyway. “That’s all you gotta say to that?”

“Well, you said you were gonna leave,” Steve says. Never once does he take his eyes off the road. “And after the whole… thing with the hospital, I’m surprised he let you back in.”

Billy huffs, thumps his head into the headrest. “I’ve been benched. Only reason I’m there is ‘cause he wants me in the yearbook photo, like I’m some trophy.” He clutches his rib tighter, hissing with the sting. “Figure that’s all I’m good for anymore, just to look pretty. Really am a dumb blond.”

Sighing, Steve reaches over to pat his shoulder; he misses, instead gripping the seat until he finds the mark. Billy doesn’t laugh. “You’re not dumb. You’ve just got… limitations now. Like, you can’t shotgun a six pack and not expect it to come up right after.”

“That’s just you,” Billy snorts, crosses his arms. Slowly, Steve’s hand slips southward, eventually curling into his elbow, just above the thin strip of gauze covering his forearm. Hospital grade, not the cheap stuff he kept under the sink. “I’m fine, Harrington. Wouldn’t be in school if I wasn't.”

“I’m not saying that.” Nimble fingers pull his arm free. Billy lets him, lets Steve take him by the wrist, so close to holding hands but not quite. Steve won’t take the initiative. “All I’m saying,” Steve starts again, pausing at a red light, “is that you have to pace yourself. Dude, you just almost died—”

“Did die,” Billy cuts in. “Heart stopped for three minutes, or did you forget?”

Steve’s lips turn into a scowl. “Okay, so you died. And I get it, because I’ve been there.” A shrug. “Almost. I’m starting to lose track with all the concussions. But, still. Did you really think you’d be able to do everything you did before? You gotta just, slow down, man. Take a breath, it’s not gonna kill you to loosen up a bit.”

 _It might_ , Billy wants to say. Posturing is all he’s ever done, his life built around climbing to the top of every social ladder, impressing the masses with his physique, with what he could do for them without a second thought about what he needed in return. He hasn't let anyone touch him—really touch him, outside of the bedroom—in months, and he can’t remember the last time someone hugged him that wasn’t immediately related to him.

Steve probably hugged him last night. Shame he can’t remember it happening.

The rumble of the engine fills the void for the rest of the ride, not nearly as loud as the Camaro, but just enough to be heard. Built for luxury, not for sport. Billy misses his car. “Did you grab my keys?” he asks, still clutching his ribs with one hand. In the other, Steve rubs Billy’s palm with his thumb, strangely intimate. Intense.

“Couldn’t risk it,” Steve sighs. He takes Billy’s hand in full. Heart fluttering, Billy holds on tight. “I barely got you out of the house in the first place. You’re heavy as shit, dude.”

Billy laughs. “All muscle, baby.” He settles further into the seat, hoping his blush dims by the time they make it across town. “Don’t know if I need her,” he admits, hating how his voice grows softer, rougher. “Old man bought it for me right before we moved here. Said it’d make me a man, ‘cause he’s pretty sure the moment you turn queer, your balls shrivel up.”

Steve’s grip on his hand tightens, to the point of pain. Oh, right—Steve doesn’t know. “Never did tell you that, did it?”

“Kinda figured,” Steve says, noncommittal. “Thought about it one day, ‘cause I couldn't figure out _why_ you kept body checking me in practice. Trust me, Tommy was just as much of an asshole, and he never put me on my ass for the fun of it.”

 _Huh_. “Didn’t think I was that obvious.” But if Steve caught on… “Does anyone else—”

“Dude, no.” Straightening up, Steve lets go of Billy and places both hands on the steering wheel. Vaguely, Billy spots the outline of Steve’s house, all sharp angles and too many windows. “People just think it’s guys being guys. If they never caught on before, they’re sure as hell not going to now.”

“So, how’d you know then?”

Steve doesn’t answer until they pull into the driveway. He shutters the engine, plucks the key from the ignition—and he turns, with a brow lifted and eye unreadable from underneath his shades. Even then, Billy knows that look—knows the suggestion on his face, and he doesn’t know why he never picked up on it before.

So that’s why Steve only ever dated Nancy, why Steve couldn’t talk another girl into a date if someone paid him to. He wasn't—isn’t—trying. Steve’s like _him_.

“I’ve got an extra bedroom,” Steve says instead. He flips through the keyring until he finds the one presumably for the front door. “Couple, actually. There’s a kitchen, and a… Come on, I’ll show you.”

Wincing with the strain, Billy follows after him, wallet in his pocket and nothing else to his name. _Same as it ever was_.

-+-

Before the mall, sleep always came easily. Granted, alcohol was almost always involved, or whatever brand of medication he scored that day, but he always showed up before curfew, and always passed out in his own bed, dead to the world.

These days, Billy wishes he could sleep for more than five minutes at a time. Pain keeps him alert, despite the constant need to rest. His bones ache—he can’t sit still, not like this.

Steve is right, unfortunately. The house really is quiet at night, especially this time of year. Sure, the heater pops on every thirty minutes, but in the interim, Billy can hear the foundation settling, can hear the rare car passing by on the street. Once, a branch scrapes against the far end of the house—he launches out of bed, heart jumping into his throat at the sound.

White noise would probably help. It always did at home, but the Harrington’s seem too good for that, what with their central air conditioning and ceiling fans. His left kidney for a box fan.

On weak legs, Billy leaves one of the guest rooms—the one closest to Steve’s room, decorated in blue plaid linens with matching checkerboard wallpaper—and heads into the pitch-black hallway. A light filters in from down the stairs, left on sometime after Billy headed upstairs; he can’t hear the television running, though, and Steve’s bedroom door is closed. _He probably has pills_ , is Billy’s first thought, followed by, _he’s probably asleep_.

In reality, he should go back to his room and try to sleep, or watch the world pass by outside the window. In reality, he shouldn't creep into Steve’s bedroom in the middle of the night, but he does, turning the knob as slowly as he can manage without waking him. No such luck—though, if Steve were actually sleeping in the first place is anyone’s guess.

Two eyes stare at Billy from across the room, half-lidded and barely focused. Billy stands there, half in the doorway, and watches Steve blink, hears him yawn. “You got any meds?” Billy whispers, to Steve’s nod.

“Medicine cabinet,” Steve rasps, pulls the blankets tight around his neck.

Billy barely hears if Steve replies when he steps inside, shutting the bedroom door with a quiet click. Floorboards creak with every step, loud and unsettling; Steve doesn’t react except to snuffle, pulling his pillow closer. Meanwhile, Billy steps into the en suite and flips on the light, his fingers tripping over the dimmer switch. _Fancy_ , he thinks, and turns it down to near-darkness, just enough light to find his way.

Loath as he is admit it, Billy is no stranger to medicine cabinets. Parties always provided an ample supply of medication and other paraphernalia, most of which he took for his own personal use or sold behind the school when he needed the cash. Steve’s, however, is something to be desired, stocked with toothpaste and painkillers and a bottle of what looks like Mercurochrome. Not that Billy would steal from him anyway, if he had anything—if they’re supposed to be living together, they have to trust each other, and he can’t start that off by being a thief.

Sighing through his nose, Billy takes the bottle of Advil and unscrews the cap, pouring three pills into his hand. Admittedly, he needs more, but he has school tomorrow, and sleeping past six won’t get him anywhere in life. He quickly swallows them dry and ignores his reflection when he closes the cabinet, knowing full and well how busted his nose must look, the bruise forming along his jaw. _You should see the other guy_ , he’ll say to whoever asks. The idea of explaining just what happens leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Even worse, is that Steve knows. To what extent, Billy doesn’t know, but Steve knows enough that he could sit on the witness stand if Neil ever went to trial.

 _Fat chance_. He’d be lucky if his old man even gets arrested for it.

He steps into Steve’s room without a sound, with every intention of heading back to his own room, where his new pillow awaits. Steve’s eyes stop him, barely visible in the light streaming through the curtains. Cold air filters in through the open sash, lifting the hairs on Billy’s exposed arms. His shirt sits on the foot of his bed, far away from where Steve lies, half-asleep in a bed too large for one person.

Anxiety sits heavy in Billy’s gut for a long few moments, the indecision so unfamiliar, so daunting. Steve sits up in the interim, leaning on one elbow and running a hand through his hair. The faint scent of cologne hangs in the air, along with chimney smoke, and Billy wants to bask in it, wants to burrow into it and never come up for air. “Can’t sleep?” Steve asks, and Billy can’t help but nod, transfixed. He’s shirtless—they both are.

“Quiet,” Billy answers, hands hanging limp at his sides.

“Can stay here, if you want,” Steve says. Flopping back down, he extends an arm, wiggling his fingers in invitation. “Been told I’m a good cuddler.”

“Fuck,” Billy laughs, covering his face. Like he could deny Steve anything, anyway.

Compared to the guest room, Steve’s mattress might as well be heaven incarnate, with its soft sheets and even softer bedding, warm from Steve’s body. Careful of his side, Billy lies on his back, then tempts fate and turns to face Steve, only to find Steve with his eyes closed, breathing steadily, evenly, without fear. Billy envies him, wishes he could rest just as comfortably.

Bicep beneath the pillow, Billy places a hand between their chests, only to feel Steve drape an arm over Billy’s waist, tugging them closer. Their legs tangle, cold toes brushing under the sheets; Billy ducks his head, lip between his teeth. “Never did apologize for that night,” he sighs, looking away.

Steve opens his bad eye, the other pressed into the pillow. “It’s in the past,” he says. He traces his fingers down Billy’s spine, ending at the waistband of his briefs. “Too many things’ve happened since.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, soft. Still, he strokes his thumb under Steve’s eye and feels him soften. “Still want to, though. Sorry.”

“Not gonna say it’s fine,” Steve says, drawing his hand up, where his fingers press into Billy’s nape, “but apology accepted. Now are you gonna sleep or not?”

Huffing a laugh, Billy nods. “Night, princess.”

A smile flutters across Steve’s lips. “Night, Billy.”

-+-

Steve picks him up in the Camaro the next day, with Max in the backseat and a book bag in the front. “We picked it up after Steve dropped you off,” Max explains, popping gum from where she leans between the front seats. “Or, I did. Played hooky and drove over to Steve’s place before Neil figured out where I was.”

“Smart girl,” Billy says, and tosses the bag into the footwell. He needed that today—not that his teachers cared one bit, as long as he promised to bring in all of his assignments tomorrow. Turns out, being beaten half to death garners sympathy from everyone, except for his coach. Speaking of, “Coach let me go after practice.”

Steve looks at him from over the rim of his sunglasses, a brow raised. His patch is neon orange today, with a jack-o’-lantern printed onto it. Halloween—right, that’s coming up. “Just like that?”

Billy shrugs, sitting back. Max pats his shoulder, a pout on her lips. “Can’t exactly play when you’ve got stitches and a busted nose. Fucking sucks.” He sniffs, wincing. “Can’t letter this year.”

“But you got your jacket last year,” Max chimes in.

“It’s the… precedent of the thing.” Billy motions toward the school with one hand, the other pressed to his ribs. “Can’t even do that, now what’m I supposed to do?”

“Relax?” Steve and Max echo, then look to each other. Billy rolls his eyes.

“Come on, it’s just another pin,” Steve says, like he doesn’t already have three of said pins. He doesn’t wear his jacket anyway, what does he care? “Besides, there’s other after-school activities out there.”

“You could hang out with us in film club,” Max says, mirthful, and swats at him when Billy thumps her forehead. “Hey, come on, I’m just trying to help.”

“Both of you, cool it.” Steve starts the engine, cutting Billy off before he can even try to fight back. “Max, where am I taking you?”

“Home,” Max answers, solemn, and sits, seatbelt undone. “Neil’s taking us out to dinner. I’d rather drink bleach.”

Billy exhales through his nose. _Not as fun as it sounds_ sits heavy on his tongue. _Try having it pumped out of your stomach later_. “Don’t party too hard,” he says, tucks his hair behind his ears. Max grumbles something, but Billy doesn’t bother to listen. Of course Neil would do something nice like that, now that Billy isn’t there.

 _Should’ve told the nurses the truth_.

“We brought your clothes too,” Steve says as he pulls out of the parking lot, considerably slower than Billy would’ve driven her. “We stashed everything we could in the trunk, so you don’t have to wear my clothes anymore.”

“Ew, grody,” Max laughs.

A flush crawls up Billy’s neck, unnoticed by Steve. They smell nice, though; if he had to admit it, Steve’s scent calms him, keeps him grounded even when the pain grows to be unbearable. Small reminders, things to get him from one day to the next. “Thanks,” he says, closing his eyes.

The sun beats down through the windshield, sinking below the tops of the pines. Steve nods and pats Billy’s thigh, out of sight. This time, he means it.

-+-

The rest of October and November pass in a blur, Billy’s days filled with either school or homework, or entertaining Max on the days Steve is stuck at work and Max can’t bring herself to leave Billy’s side. Not that the company isn’t nice—Max is his sister, by marriage or not—but sometimes, all he wants to do is sleep on the couch or pass out in front of the television.

As it is, he’ll take what he can get. Somehow, the Harrington abode never runs out of food, Steve’s parents never come home except when they’re passing through town, and he and Steve always fall into bed at the end of the day, wrapped around each other. Steve has nightmares—Billy echoes his pain. Somehow, they make it work, despite the morning breath and awkward erections and spooning, all of which they never talk about. It’s just something they do, and Billy sleeps better than he ever has with Steve at his back.

Belatedly, Billy knows why everyone called him king. Even outside of school, Steve is everything Billy could ever want, and more.

He meets Robin one night in late December, the two of them buzzed on wine coolers from the Family Video Christmas party. “Not really a party,” Robin said, half draped over the island while Steve manned the stove, cooking too many pancakes for eleven o’clock at night. Billy stood there, dressed in a loose pair of jeans, and listened, grinning all the while. She’s a knockout, and Billy immediately knows why Steve likes her. “Keith bought us a bunch of booze, and we drank it, and I called him a fuddy duddy, ‘cause he couldn’t get the good stuff, y’know?”

“He’s not gonna give us whiskey,” Steve complained, pouring too many chocolate chips into the batter. Drunk, Steve has an accent, decidedly un-Midwestern and leaning more southern. _Interesting_. “He don’t even like us.”

“He sucks,” Robin hissed, and laughed, and ruffled Billy’s hair over the island. “See you haven’t learned to wear a shirt.”

“No one’s ever told me not to,” Billy replied, simple, and slapped Steve’s ass for good measure. The look Steve gave him is one of Billy’s favorite memories—scandalized, flushed red to his ears, and Robin laughed, hysterical and echoing through the kitchen.

A day after the final class of the semester and four days before Christmas, Steve comes in the front door with the day’s mail and a package with Billy’s name on it. “Didn’t know your middle name was Henry,” he says as he kicks the door shut. Billy yanks it out of his grasp before Steve can open it and find out any other incriminating information. “Hey—”

“Can’t have you committing mail fraud,” Billy deflects, turning his back. Steve follows him into the kitchen, fighting Billy for the package while they laugh, in the midst of a game of keep-away that Billy hasn’t played since he was a kid. He ends up with his back against the island, mail held behind him, while Steve boxes him in, hands to either side. This close, Billy can feel the heat rolling off of him, can feel Steve’s breath against his lips. A thrill shoots through him, all the way to his toes. So different from nights in a shared bed—and everything he’s wanted for a year. “Something on your mind, pretty boy?”

“Wanna see what you got there,” Steve answers, utterly casual about standing in kissing distance. “Something important, Henry?”

“God, fuck you.” Billy shoves him away with a laugh, and Steve pushes him right back.

The package isn’t any bigger than a sheet of paper, made entirely of cardboard and wrapped in too much tape. Billy cuts into it with a kitchen knife, ripping open the end to find a blue leather folder with Hawkins High School emblazoned on the front in gold leaf. A diploma—they actually sent him his diploma. “Holy shit,” Billy wheezes, holding it with both hands. Neil dropped out of high school; Susan was homeschooled.

 _I’m the first_.

Steve hugs him then, both arms around his neck while Billy shakes, stares down at the folder in his hands. Tears spill down Billy’s cheeks, and only belatedly does he wipe them away with his palm. “I’m proud of you, man,” Steve says into his ear. “You can’t believe how proud I am.”

“Shut up,” Billy says, watery in his throat. He hugs Steve anyway, burying his face in Steve’s neck until the tremors calm, until he feels more like a person and less like a livewire. “Didn’t even have to walk.”

A chuckle. “It’s not that big of a deal. My dad didn’t even show up to mine.” Steve pats Billy’s back, all before cupping the back of his head, fingers lost in his hair. He breathes out, voice growing frail. “Are you gonna leave? Like you said?”

He could. He’s old enough now, with a car and a license and almost a thousand dollars squirreled away—he could go anywhere. But for the first time in his life, Billy wants someone with him. And that someone is the boy in his arms, warm and unbearably sweet, with a horrible sense of color coordination. “Come with me,” he says, pulling back to grab Steve’s shoulders. Steve blinks, lips parted. “For a week or two, hell, forever, just—come with me?”

“It’s almost Christmas,” Steve says, automatic, like the words are foreign on his tongue.

Christmas—Who cares about Christmas? “Fuck Christmas, man,” Billy says, squeezing Steve a bit harder. “Think it over. ‘Cause I’m leaving with or without you, but I’d…” He stops, chooses his next sentence. “It’d be better if you were there.”

Minutely, Billy feels Steve soften under his hands. Steve bows his head, lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he agrees, and Billy’s heart stops. “I’ll see what I can work out with Keith. Pretty sure he owes me some vacation time.”

Billy smiles, taps Steve’s cheek with his palm. Not really a slap, but Steve jumps, then relaxes. “I’ve got some loose ends to tie up,” he says, to Steve’s nod. Steve’s smile falls, though, even when Billy cups his cheek, slips a thumb under the edge of his eyepatch. “What’s got you today?”

“Just… kinda wanted you to stay here,” Steve admits, sheepish. Watching him, Billy’s heart twists painfully in his chest. “I’m selfish like that.”

“You are,” Billy says. Dipping his head, he steps closer, just to see Steve’s pupil dilate. “Kinda like it.”

And oh, that does it. Steve pulls away and backs into the kitchen wall, face aflame and eye wide. Billy just laughs and leaves the room, grabbing his wallet and the diploma from the island as he goes. He needs to talk to Max and Susan. Maybe, if he’s lucky, Neil won’t be home, and he won’t have to talk to either of them over the phone. It won’t take more than an hour. Hopefully, being the key word. “I’ll be back.”

“Know you will,” Steve says. An arm juts from around the corner, a set of keys dangling from between his fingers. “Forgot these.”

 _Oh_.

-+-

Neil works late some Saturdays, those blessed few hours previously the only time of the week where Billy could sit in peace and quiet and not have to worry about what new words Neil picked up to throw in Billy’s face. Tonight, with the sun setting behind the trees, Billy finds Neil’s car absent from the driveway and the lights on inside. Susan must be home then, and by extension, Max.

Best case scenario, considering.

Given the time of night, he has maybe thirty minutes before Neil shows up and smashes another dent into the side of Billy’s car. He just managed to fix the first one—after the second, he might scrap the car entirely and live out of Steve’s backseat.

Max spots him before he can step out of the front seat, flinging open the screen door to meet him, her braids bouncing as she runs. Susan follows, a dishrag slung over her shoulder; flowers adorn her blouse, tucked into her skirt. Neither of them bother with shoes despite the frigid chill in the air. “Your friend Steve called,” Susan says as soon as he steps onto the front porch, snow dusting his boots. “He said to expect you.”

“Yeah, just in case you crashed,” Max chimes, her voice shivering. Instinctively, Billy wants to offer her his coat, for old times’ sake. “It’s snowing, you ass, did you even look outside?”

“Maxine,” Susan hisses—and faintly, Billy spots a grin creeping over her lips.

Max will be fine without him, he knows, and Susan too—but that doesn’t mean he won’t miss them both, in his own way. “Can we talk?” Billy asks the two of them, tucking his hands under his armpits. He really should’ve checked the weather, or paid attention to the piles of snow gathering on every yard between Steve’s home and his old house. “I need your… advice.”

Susan nods, unsure, but users Billy inside anyway, into the warmth of the foyer. “We just finished dinner, but I could warm something up for you, if you wanted,” she says, but Billy shakes his head. Max takes his hand and drags him into the living room, shoving him into Neil’s armchair. Bad move, but he refuses to fight it; he won’t be here long anyway, not long enough to leave his cologne behind. Crossing the room, Susan sits on the edge of the coffee table, hands pillowed between her knees. “What is it?”

“I,” Billy starts, swallows. He falters, tongue thick in his mouth; instead, he pulls the diploma from the inner pocket in his jacket and hands it to her with eyes closed. “I finished early.”

“Oh,” Susan gasps, a hand to her chest.

Max hugs him in lieu of a reply, arms thrown around his neck. “You didn’t tell me you were done,” she says with a laugh and pulls back, shaking him by the collar. “You said you were still graduating in the summer!”

Billy smiles, with less teeth and even less anger. He doesn’t have time for it anymore, can’t bother to expend the effort when all it got him in the past was heartache and the worst summer of his life. “I lied,” he says, and Max frowns. “Look, the school screwed up, and I took advantage of it. Means I can get out of there sooner, and…” He stops, looks down at his shoes. “I’m going back.”

Max sucks in air. Susan frowns, running a hand through his hair. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Of course he doesn't, he’s not ready to just leave,” Max hisses, glancing between him and Susan. Billy refuses to look at her, suddenly ashamed of the fire in her eyes. His silence must be enough of an answer for her. “Billy, you can’t… You can’t just drive off by yourself! I mean, what about the people here, what about us—”

“You think this isn’t hard enough, leaving you behind?” he says, glaring right back at her. Susan’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “I’m fucking terrified of leaving, but I need to, because I can’t… I can’t go on living like this. I don’t have a life here, and I can’t go anywhere without people pitying me. All I’ll ever be known for is that guy who almost died, and I just—I need to be myself again.”

Tears sting the corners of his eyes; Susan wipes one away before it can fall, too tender for the woman he once knew as complacent, who watched Neil hurl slurs at him at all hours without saying a word. Maybe that night back in October changed something. Too bad he couldn’t see it happen. “We’ll be okay,” she says, cradles his face in her hand. Billy falls into her touch, hating how much he needs it. “We’re okay, William. You don’t have to worry about us. Wherever you go, we’re only an airport away.”

“Mom,” Max says, watery. If Max cries, then the rest of the night is ruined. “Mom, you can’t just let him—”

“You gotta let me go, Max,” Billy says. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he crosses an arm over his stomach. “I’ll call you, okay? Every day. But you know there’s nothing for me here. Whatever lesson dad tried to teach me didn’t stick, and I… I wanna be better than this. Better than he was, and better than I am. I just wanna make you guys proud.”

“Honey…” And Susan draws him into her arms, her embrace warm and soft. Not quite his mother’s love, but it’s close, close enough. Where was she when he needed him years ago? “I’ve always been proud of you, blood or not. Graduating from high school doesn’t change a thing. If anything, it only makes you better.”

Billy shudders a sigh and nods. “Thanks.”

It takes Max another minute, but she eventually takes her mother’s place, all rigid arms and contempt. “You can’t go alone,” she mumbles, and tugs his hair. “You’ll get lost.”

“Won’t get lost,” he says. “I have Steve.”

Steve—he has _Steve_. Billy’s heart pangs with those three words, a new brand of shame settling in his gut. Neither from pity nor anger, but whatever this feeling is that’s been living in his chest for months, years, even. The same four letters he’s never said to anyone in his life, lingering on his lips long after the moment has passed, long after everyone walked out of his life. He loves Steve—has loved him for longer than he cares to admit, and now that he has him, in friendship or otherwise, Billy never wants to let him go.

“You could’ve picked better,” Max complains. Billy huffs a laugh. “Seriously. Steve?”

“Yeah, Steve. You know he’s got an eyepatch with Christmas lights on it?”

“He sounds sweet,” Susan says. She pets through his hair when Max lets go, her fingers coming to rest atop the chain of his necklace; she pulls it free of his shirt, revealing the two pendants, and smiles. “Keep them with you.”

A nod. “I will.”

Max punches his arm lightly. “Gonna miss you,” she says, then takes his hand, her fingers smaller than his, colder. “Minute you don’t call, I’m calling the cops.”

Chuckling, Billy thumps her ear. “Don’t give yourself a gray hair over me. Ain’t gonna be the last time you see me.”

“I know,” Max sniffs, wipes her nose. “Just feels like it.”

 _It’s not_. Because one day, Max will fly out to see him, or Billy will fly back to see the both of them, and hopefully Neil will be out of the picture, God willing. But for now, Billy needs to leave, needs to plan where he’ll stay once he gets there—and needs to tell Steve, most of all.

“I’ll be back,” he promises in goodbye, and doesn’t cry until he makes it back to Steve’s house, tries not to remember their faces as he pulled out of the driveway for the last time. In a few days, Hawkins will be another memory, a year of his life wasted, leaving him battered and bruised and scarred. Tomorrow will be better—he has the rest of his life, now, and he plans to spend it wisely.


	2. Part II

“I got two weeks off,” Steve says the following morning, rummaging through his closet will Billy lazes in bed, half-dressed and cold. Snow falls outside, the chill creeping in through the barest crack in Steve’s open window. His head hurts, having nothing to do with the typical body aches and the sensitive skin between his pecs. “Starting today, so if you wanna leave, it’s gotta be like… now.”

“Ready whenever you are,” Billy says through a yawn. Stretching, he touches his palms to the headboard, letting out the most lascivious groan he can muster; he catches a glimpse of Steve looking over his shoulder, only to turn away just as quickly, red tinging the tips of his ears. The sheets pooled around Billy’s waist don’t help matters, and if he weren’t entirely lucid and aware of the consequences, Billy might pull them off, just to fluster Steve even more. “So what’s the plan? Take the long way and drive through the desert, bum around the cornfields? Pick your poison.”

“What if we went through the mountains?” Steve suggests, and—oh, wow. “I mean, my parents took me to the Grand Canyon when I was like, ten, so that’s not fun. And we have a summer house in Tampa or somewhere, and you drove what, all the way here?”

“So you want the scenic route,” Billy says. Impressive—though, he never figured Steve much for a travel junkie. “How many maps do you keep in your closet?”

“They’re not in my closet,” Steve groans. Even with his back turned, Billy knows he’s rolling his eyes. “They’re in my dad’s office. There’s a big one on the wall with pins in it, of all the places he’s gone for work. All the places he hasn’t taken me.” He rips a coat off the hanger, sending the item skittering to the floor. “Every time he comes back, it’s another pin in the wall. Like all he cares about is those damn pins—”

“Whoa, baby.” Slipping from under the sheets, Billy makes his way over to Steve in nothing but his underwear, a hand to Steve’s shoulder. Immediately, the tension there softens. “This ain’t about him. It’s about us, and what we’re gonna do, got it?”

Reluctantly, Steve agrees. He pulls two more coats from their hangers before setting them on the end of the bed, all while Billy digs three pairs of jeans from the left side of Steve’s dresser, along with every tank top and overshirt he has.

Most of what he owns will fit in two duffels, his belongings pared down to the bare essentials: clothing, toiletries and shoes, and the few pieces of jewelry Max brought him over the last few months. Steve, meanwhile, has an outfit for every day of the week, apparently unaware of the concept of rewearing pants. “You’re one of those guys with three suitcases at the airport, aren’t you?”

“It’s fashion,” Steve says, hands on his hips when he turns. Billy sits atop Steve’s coats, arms behind him, revealing every inch of skin he can. Steve flushes beet red, lips pulled into a thin line. “Dude, get your ass off my stuff—”

“Don’t like it, shove me off,” Billy jabs, lecherous as ever.

What he doesn’t expect, though, is for Steve to follow through, advancing on him with such single-minded intent that Billy practically melts when Steve gets his hands on him. Flattened into the mattress, Steve rolls him into his stomach and rips the coats out from under him, tossing them in the vague direction of his suitcase. Sweatpants brush the back of his thighs as Steve moves, until he disappears entirely, leaving Billy cold and strangely turned on. Sitting up isn’t advisable—at least Steve doesn’t comment on just why he’s half-hanging off the bed.

 _He’s so warm_ , Billy thinks.

“You’re so gross,” Steve grouses belatedly, shaking his head. In the early morning light, Billy spots his smile, try as Steve might to hide it. “Come on, get up. We’ve still gotta pack your car, and I’ve gotta call my folks—”

“Harrington.” Finally—reluctantly—Billy pries himself from the mattress, blood no longer rushing south on instinct. Steve pauses when Billy takes him by the shoulder, knuckles white at his sides. Faintly, he trembles, and Billy strokes down his arm, until he wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrist. “We’ve got time. The only one in a hurry here is you.”

Steve blinks. His right eye is foggier than it was months ago, his cataract growing. Before, he wore the patches because he was supposed to, or so his doctor said—now, he rarely ever takes them off, and barely looks at himself in the mirror when it’s not on. Billy wishes he would, just once, just to know that he’s okay, and that he survived. Billy wears his scars with pride—he wishes Steve would, too.

“I just—” Steve stops, runs both hands through his hair. “I’ve been thinking, and I… I need this too. Like, I haven’t left this town in years, and no one’s ever home. I mean, you’ve _seen_ that no one’s ever home. Hell, no one showed up for Thanksgiving, and that’s the one time of year that my parents _normally_ decide to grace me with their presence.” Steve begins to pace, walking a path from the desk to the wall and back again. Seated on the edge of the bed, Billy watches him, transfixed. “I’ve been alone for… shit, four years? Maybe longer? Because they figured, Chicago is only three hours away, and if something happens, they can fly home. But, shit.” He presses his forehead to the wall. “I’ve tried to call their hotel before, and I swear it’s like I’m asking for the launch codes.

“I’m alone,” he says, eyes pinched shut. “And I shouldn’t’ve asked you to sleep with me that first night, but I’m not coping well, and I just wanted someone to _touch_ me—”

Billy does, entirely without thinking. Bridging the gap, he palms Steve’s nape, only to hear Steve hiccup, breaths shuddering in his chest. “I get it,” he whispers, and Steve sighs, brittle. “Trust me, I get it. I would’ve killed for my mom to be there, and what I had wasn’t any better. The only person who had my back was me, and I wished, I _wish_ , I had someone there to put up with my bullshit. So this is me,” he bares his hands in invitation, “here to put up with your bullshit, if you’ll take mine.”

And Steve just _looks_ at him, slack jawed. “I swear, did you get a personality replacement in the hospital? Who am I talking to?”

Billy drops his hand, then crosses his arms. “Someone too tired to deal,” he says. “Point is, I’m not gonna let you be alone anymore, deal? Even after this is over, I’m still gonna call you, and I’m still gonna make sure you haven’t thrown yourself down the stairs again. And you’re gonna answer that damn phone, ‘cause I know you need someone to kick your ass every once in a while.” He shrugs. “Metaphorically. Not really in the ass kicking business anymore.”

Steve considers him before turning to stare at the carpet. Whatever demons lurk inside of Steve’s head, Billy can’t even fathom half of them, but whatever Steve is going through, Billy wants to be there, wants to be the person he always needed but never had. And, he thinks, Steve needs that too, if he’ll ever allow it, welcome Billy into more than just his bed.

“Maybe I need the push,” Steve admits, rubbing the back of his neck. Red paints his cheeks, faint in the light streaming through the window, reflecting off the snow. “I just—I’m a lot to put up with. I don’t wanna burden you with all of this… this bullshit.” He spits the last word, like it tastes like acid. “I’m not good company, Billy.”

 _Billy_ —just one word, the one word Steve has never apparently spoken in his _life_ , and Billy wants to hear it again. “You’re good enough for me,” he says, catching sight of the heat climbing Steve’s chest. “Besides, you’re the only sucker that’d put up with me for a week in a car.”

Steve punches him for that, a light tap on the shoulder, but a punch nonetheless. “Don’t push your luck,” he shoots back, a smirk curling his lips. “I’ll bring my entire tape collection just to spite you.”

He balks—Steve laughs, and leaves him to pick up his jeans off the floor. “Pack,” Steve says, beginning to arrange his suitcase. “I’m not keeping whatever you leave here.”

 _You totally will_ , Billy almost says. Still, Billy collects his things and throws on his clothes for the day, and pointedly doesn’t listen when Steve calls his mother a few minutes later to relay the news. It’s not his conversation to be a part of, anyway.

-+-

Everything Billy owns sits in the trunk, and approximately half of Steve’s closet takes up the other side, along with gas canister and a cooler for whatever drinks they can smuggle across state lines. Steve sprawls out in the passenger seat the moment they leave the driveway, halfway out of his shoes just because he can. Billy would join him if he weren’t behind the wheel.

He’s taken this route for fun, sometimes, fantasizing about what it might be like to leave, and what roads would take him there. Now, he doesn’t have to long for it—he can just drive for as long as he can, until the gas runs out and the engine dies.

This far out in Indiana, there aren’t many road signs leading toward any highway with more than two lanes. Hawkins has a speed limit of twenty-five, and for once, Billy doesn’t even bother to exceed it, his attention more focused on where they’re going, rather than how fast. “Last chance,” Billy starts, looking over at Steve. He yanks open the glovebox one-handed and shoves a well-used map of Indiana into Steve’s hands. “North, west or south, pick before I make this turn.”

“North,” Steve decides, final. He flips open the map and points Billy west, toward the city limits and into the dusty corn fields Billy has come to know.

Good _fucking_ riddance.

Billy doesn’t bother to look in the direction of the mall, or where he suspects Starcourt once existed, now razed to a slab of concrete with a massive Land For Sale banner hooked to the surrounding fence. Steve doesn’t see it, or doesn’t pay attention, either way. Too many memories there, all awful and all brands of nightmare-inducing. The weight comes free, though, such a physical thing that Billy sucks in a breath, and Steve does the same, his posture loose, the pinch in his brow smoothed to a gentle crease. Billy laughs and relaxes into his seat; Steve slips off his shoes, arms wrapped around the headrest in an attempt to stretch.

A sign reading You Are Now Leaving Hawkins passes by, faded green and spray-painted over. Part of him wants to take a picture for posterity—the other half just hits the accelerator and never looks back.

The last time Billy was outside the city limits, he was following behind a packed U-Haul with Max in the front seat, the two of them haunted by the memory of their former home, knowing that Interstate 70 lead to the dead end of civilization, where society disappeared and the cows roamed free. Traveling northbound offers no new scenery, but the temperature drops by the hour, frosting the windows at the edges. Despite the snow blanketing the medians and shoulders, the sky remains blue and untouched, offering no new precipitation.

“You think it’s warm in Tennessee?” Billy asks and glances over, one hand on the wheel. The other, he hangs over the center console, wiggling his fingers every few minutes. The more the temperature drops, the stiffer his body gets, namely his lungs and his hands. The latter, he can handle—the former, not so much, not until he gets moving and his chest feels less like he inhaled the entire quarry in one night.

Beside him, Steve lets his arms down, shakes them out. “Paper said we’re having some freak cold spell,” he says through a yawn. He shrugs his coat off and tosses it in the backseat, leaving him in a sweater too cheery to be legal, with yellows and oranges and greens, like he plans to brighten every room he walks into. He might as well be a beacon, and Billy can’t look away, out of sheer gaudiness. “There was one winter when I was a kid, where it just snowed for days. Shut down the airport and the roads, and the whole town just went white. I think that's the longest my parents have actually stayed home, actually.”

“Can’t imagine it,” Billy says, drums his hands on the steering wheel. He tries, struggling to picture every street in all of Hawkins covered in feet of snow, imagines it flying sideways into houses, freezing everything it touches. Last winter, he barely saw a flake—this winter, according to Steve, isn’t anything to blink at. Overnight, it snowed four inches. Billy stuck a ruler in Steve’s front yard, just to check. Four inches might as well be a miracle, in his book. “You ever smelled something burning?”

Steve raises a brow. “Are you having a stroke? Do you smell burnt toast?”

“What—No, no.” Billy rolls his eyes. “I mean like, bonfires. Prairie fires, whatever. Just burning.”

“Sure,” Steve says, unsure. His fingers twitch atop his thigh. “The seniors always burn their notebooks on the last day of school, and we used to just torch random shit at homecoming. Like that?”

Billy shrugs, pushes his sunglasses up his nose. “Back home, we used to get these winds. Real warm, they’d blow in off the mountains and dry everything out. Local news would say every night, put out your cigarettes, don’t light any fires you can’t stomp out, but they’d always get out of control.” He grips the wheel tighter, remembers. “You can smell the fires from miles away when they get going. Just the smoke stink of it, fucks with your lungs and your head. I lived on the coast, but you could just… feel it in the air, the change.” He chuckles. “When mom left, Neil blamed it on the wind. Said she’d come back after it died down, but she never did.

“But,” he points a finger at Steve, jamming it in his shoulder, “other than that, the weather’s great.”

Steve lets out a strangled laugh. “Sure. Now I’m convinced we’re gonna catch fire in the middle of December.”

“Hey, at least we’d be warmer,” Billy jeers. “I swear, if you freeze me out, I’m gonna leave you on the side of the road in Montana.”

“You wouldn’t,” Steve says, then pauses, face falling. “Shit, you probably would.”

“Damn straight.” Reaching over, he flicks Steve’s ear. “Good thing you’re too pretty to freeze.”

“Dude,” Steve complains and covers his ear, but doesn’t shy away. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an ass?”

A smack to Steve’s thigh. “A time or two. Like hearing it from you, though.”

-+-

Driving into Indiana, Billy barely slept. Neil refused to stop until midnight most nights, despite Susan’s complaints and Max’s constant tears from the stress. And as soon as they pulled into the motel parking lot, Neil always announced they could only afford to rent out a double, and Billy spent the rest of the night in the front seat, doors locked and windows cracked, despite the sweltering summer heat. He sweated through his clothes, rinsed off with a water house whenever he found one, and avoided any and all eye contact with his family until they made it into Hawkins.

How he survived without driving off of a bridge or wrapping his car around a streetlamp, he has no clue. Can barely remember that trip, aside from the blind panic and the paranoia that accompanies sleep deprivation and pure, unbridled anger. Words were said, words he can’t ever take back. Max never forgave him—he never asked for anything different.

Somewhere before eight in the evening, Billy pulls up to a motel along a long stretch of Iowa interstate, with a name half obscured by broken neon and the Vacancy sign flashing underneath. Wherever they are, Billy doesn’t have a clue, but the motel has a double available and only one other car is in the parking lot, and he’ll take whatever he can get, if it means he gets to lie down for five minutes.

Driving back and forth to school had never been an issue, never gave him a backache that he felt in his teeth, but here he is, dragging his feet on the way back to the car.

To his relief, Steve has both of their overnight bags ready by the time Billy appears with the room key, all the way on the other end of the motor court. Steve follows him just as sluggishly, the circles under his eyes deepening by the hour. As much as Billy has always liked driving, he forgot how exhausting it could be, especially for hours at a time—making it across the country will take a miracle, or a supply of pain medication, whichever comes first.

“I never thought I’d see a bed again,” Steve announces, ever the dramatic one, and flops down onto the mattress closest to the door, face first into the musty bedding.

Billy has stayed in worse, considering. Despite the dated bedspread and the wood-paneled walls, it feels homey, lived-in, even with the stink of cigarettes and the buzz of the heating unit. The shag carpeting could use a deep clean, and smoke stains the ceiling in places; wallpaper peels around the door and the window, and paint chips off the dresser in spots. It could be worse—they could be sleeping in the car.

Setting down his bag at the foot of the empty bed, Billy sits on the edge and unlaces his boots, ignoring the twinge in his spine and the ache in his lungs. Just stiffness, he reasons, brought on by a car that hasn’t been comfortable since the day he bought it, but it hurts nonetheless, all the way to his toes. Lying back doesn’t feel any better, and, hissing through his teeth, he places his hands behind the small of his back, lifting up enough to ease his protesting spine.

Nothing works, and Steve notices, his visible eye narrowed from where he watches Billy on the opposite bed. “We only drove seven hours,” Steve reasons and pushes up, groaning.

“Not looking so hot yourself,” Billy jeers. He opts to try stretching instead, arms above his head, fingertips brushing the headboard; it helps somewhat, but his chest still aches, a deep-seated pain that won’t fully fade. “Hey, we get our own beds, Harrington.”

Steve laughs, rolling off the mattress. A weight dips around either side of Billy’s thighs, a familiar warmth bleeding through his jeans. And Billy just lets him, allows Steve into his space, allows Steve to help maneuver him onto his stomach. Deft fingers work Billy’s jacket off, then pull his shirt from his jeans, creeping underneath, pressing onto his lower back. Everything about it is intimate, from the way Steve moves his hands to the sounds he wrenches from Billy’s throat as he works his way up Billy’s spine. “Shit,” Billy exhales, gritting his teeth. “Don’t think anyone’s ever touched me like that.”

“I’ve got magic fingers,” Steve says, nonchalant. He shifts slightly, hips nearly in line with Billy’s, and presses his knuckles into a knot at the top of his spine—Billy bites the comforter, holding back a scream. “You, however, probably need a chiropractor. I would ask where’ve you been sleeping, but—”

“Your mattress is good, but it ain’t that good,” Billy muffles into the comforter.

Steve mocks offense and jabs back into the knot for good measure. That, coupled with Steve effectively sitting on his ass, drags a groan straight from Billy’s lungs, his body flattened and entirely too prone. “Excuse me, but my mattress is just fine,” he says, and Billy _swears_ Steve ruts against his ass through their jeans. “Seeing as you’d rather stay there than like, do anything else.”

“’Cause it’s warm,” Billy says, eyes rolling back. If he weren’t trapped, he might think about palming himself, just to ease the pressure; as it is, Steve keeps him still, massaging the kinks in his shoulders just under the collar of his tank top. “Like a furnace, swear you run a fever— _fuck_ —”

“There you go,” Steve says—hums, practically—and all at once, his hands disappear, leaving Billy winded and _hard_ , backache forgotten. “How’s that?”

“Fuckin’—peachy,” Billy manages, eyes pinched shut. “This payback or something?”

And Steve _wiggles_ , entirely too playful for Billy’s nerves. “Come on, you need to lighten up. So serious.” Leaning over, he rakes his nails down Billy’s scalp, and Billy downright shivers, body a livewire in Steve’s grasp. “It’s not gonna kill you to have some fun.”

“Might,” Billy says, low. As much as he might want to, Billy doesn’t do fun, hasn’t tried in forever, given the consequences. Somehow, strings are always attached, and those strings end up severed and leave him with a black eye, or berated to the point of tears. Steve makes him want to try, though. Neil isn’t here to terrorize him. Hawkins isn’t bearing down on his shoulders. No one’s forcing him to be someone he isn’t.

 _But who am I_?

For a while, Steve sits there, stroking through Billy’s hair, tangling his fingers in the curls; Billy leans into it, the world around him falling away, replaced solely by Steve’s presence, his body putty in Steve’s hands. “Want you to cut it off,” Billy murmurs, only to feel Steve stop, but never quite pull away. He would be lying if he hadn’t thought about it before, about how he grew his hair out just to spite Neil, no longer his father’s golden boy. He looked good—it felt good, but some days, all he wanted to do was hack it off, take a pair of scissors to himself and leave it all in the trash.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks. He tucks a curl behind Billy’s ear, exposing his face; Billy looks right at him, half-lidded and exhausted.

“I’ll grow it back out if I don’t like it,” Billy compromises, closes his eyes. “I wanna start over.”

Slowly, Steve sighs and dismounts, coming to rest at Billy’s side. He flops down onto the mattress, their elbows pressed together; without thinking, Billy covers Steve’s hand with his own, and holds his breath when Steve laces their fingers together, thumb caressing the side of his hand. “How weird is it gonna look, two guys running into a curb store looking for scissors?”

“I could always throw in condoms, say we’re having a party,” Billy joshes. Steve’s laugh is music to his ears.

-+-

They don’t make it out of the room until maybe an hour later, after Steve has showered the road stink off and Billy right after, spending more time with his right hand than absolutely necessary. By some miracle, Steve doesn’t hear him when he comes—and if he does, he doesn’t let it show, aside from a brushing of shoulders when they leave the room.

Billy makes an excuse of driving the two blocks up the street rather than walking, solely to fill up the tank before they set out the following morning. Steve, meanwhile, pays inside, and Billy meets him after he finishes, fingers smelling of spilled gasoline. He rubs his clothed arms to stave off the cold and meets Steve in one of the aisles, a pair of red-handled scissors in Steve’s hands. Steve eyes several bags of chips, placed precariously next to an arrangement of condoms and magazines wrapped in black packaging.

 _Huh_.

“You think we can order pizza in this town?” Steve asks while Billy pilfers the magazine selection, pointedly flipping past anything with tits, solely because he can. The woman at the register pays him no attention when he raises a fist. Steve lifts a brow, then opens his mouth. “Dude, you’re not—”

“I totally am,” Billy announces, hushed, and plucks the latest editions of _Honcho_ and _Blueboy_ off the rack.

Rolling his eyes, Steve grabs a bag of Doritos and says, “Real subtle there,” all before looking over Billy’s shoulder. “What, you forgot your Playboys at home?”

“Trashed all those,” Billy says, flips his hair over his shoulder, one last time. “You ever jerked off to cock, pretty boy?”

Steve’s face visibly heats, spreading down his neck. He ducks his head, out of sight of the cashier—like she cares—and pulls Billy down with him. “I’m not having this conversation with you in the middle of a gas station in—wherever we are,” he hisses, and Billy just grins. “You—what’s so funny?”

“You.” Billy glances between Steve’s eye and his lips, half-tempted to kiss him right there. “You told me to have fun, so why don’t we have some fun?” Teasingly, he runs his nail up Steve’s throat, then presses his thumb to Steve’s chin. “Jerk off with me, Harrington. Know you’ve thought about it.” Steve licks across his lips, tongue wet and pink; Billy wonders what it’d be like to have Steve’s mouth on him, what it’d be like to sink down right now and swallow Steve to the back of his throat. And worst of all, Steve would probably let him.

For once, he embraces the fear, uses it to his advantage.

“You—” Steve starts, then falters—then shoves the chips and the scissors into Billy’s hands. “You pay,” he says, and marches out. “I’ll be in the car.”

The bell over the door tinkles with his departure. Alone, Billy grabs a handful of lube packets and heads to the register, plastering on his best smile.

-+-

Billy’s heart beats, so rapid that he briefly considers the possibility of a medical issue, as he looks in the bathroom mirror, dragging a brush through his hair one last time. At his back, Steve watches him, leaning against the door jamb with the scissors in hand. Not necessarily waiting, but watching, a quiet smile on his lips and a gleam in his eye. Like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Billy flushes with the attention.

“So you’re sure?” Steve asks, brow pinched in worry. Pushing up, he stands right behind Billy, twirling a blond strand around his finger. “Once it’s gone—”

“It’ll grow back,” Billy assures. He sets the brush down on the sink and tugs his shirt off, purely under the guise of keeping the hair out of his clothes. In reality, he craves Steve’s warmth like a balm, wants his hands on his skin once again. Steve never said no earlier, to his suggestion; his heart pangs with the implication. “Took me a year to get it this long. If I don’t like it, I’ve got time.”

Humming, Steve considers his hair, lips pulled into a line. He gets both hands in it, smoothing the few stray curls out of Billy’s face, only to have them fall back into place. “I like it like this, though,” he says, not really trying to change Billy’s mind. “I can’t even picture you with a buzzcut.”

“Good thing you won’t have to, unless you fuck it up,” Billy quips. Steve rolls his eyes, jabs the handle of the scissors into Billy’s shoulder. “You ever cut your own hair?”

“When I have to.” Steve shrugs. With an air of finality, Steve gathers up Billy’s hair and pulls it into a short ponytail, three fingers to Billy’s scalp, the rest holding it in place. “I normally use clippers, though. If you would’ve told me, I could’ve brought them. Whole hell of a lot easier.”

“Probably,” Billy says.

He takes one long, last look at himself, at Steve with a hand on his head, the other preciously holding the scissors. If he doesn't like it, it’ll grow back—or he can find the nearest barber and sort it out there. Years ago, he buzzed it just to keep Neil from grabbing it, and Brady never stopped touching it while they kissed behind the bleachers, cold metal at his back and the spring sun beating down. One of the few things he loves, but one thing he never allows himself to indulge in—touch. Something that Steve does so freely, especially when they’re alone.

Like right now. “I’m ready,” Billy says, slumping his shoulders.

Steve doesn’t count down—doesn’t even hesitate, and all Billy hears is a snip before majority of his curls careen to the floor. Opening his eyes, he looks at himself and how different he appears, how much younger, his face in full view. Steve reaches over to grab a short-toothed comb before going to work, keeping the top of Billy’s hair a little longer than the rest, a few curls falling into his face. Cool air tickles the back of his neck, coupled with Steve’s warm breath and the occasional curse when he loses his grip. A few times, Steve stops to rub his bad eye, now visible, his eyepatch left on the nightstand.

Never once does Steve stop touching him, a hand always somewhere on his body. Billy delights in it, moving wherever Steve wants him to, tilting his head back, forward, to the side. If he wanted, Billy would let Steve kiss his neck like this, a hand in what’s left of his hair, guiding him, exposing him. And Billy _wants_ him to, needy and verging on desperate for whatever he can get.

“I can go shorter,” Steve says, setting the scissors down atop the sink. Opening his eyes, Billy admires his work, the shorter sides and the unruly curls draped over one side of his head, giving him an undercut of sorts. Steve plays with what’s left, pushing it from side to side and even stacking it in the middle, letting it fall onto Billy’s forehead. It looks good—it _feels_ good. “How’s that?”

Smoothing it down to where he wants it, Billy grins, and Steve follows along, sheepish. “Perfect,” he says, and faces Steve, acutely aware that he’s standing in piles of his own hair. “Think you’ve found your calling.”

Steve grins, head bowed. “Yeah, well, upkeep is important. Besides, it looks better on you than it would me.”

Billy hums and pets Steve’s hair, no longer styled with product and lying flat. Humidity must be a bitch in the summer. “Did a good job,” he says, low, noting the half-lidded stare Steve gives him, heat high on his face. “Just for that, you can stay in my bed tonight.”

And Steve snorts, pushing Billy into the lip of the sink. “Didn’t think I needed your permission, _your majesty_.”

-+-

Oddly enough, the cold lifts the further west they travel, Iowa’s snow-covered cornfields turning to Nebraska’s dry, flat plains within an hours’ drive. The storm front must have passed through here earlier, giving the land a chance to thaw before the next inevitable freeze. Sincerely, Billy hopes it’s later rather than sooner. Given his way, and he’d have sunshine for the rest of the trip.

As it is, he’ll take an afternoon high in the fifties over the teens any day. Feet perched up on the dash, Billy reclines in the passenger seat with his hand hanging out the window, eyes closed, the world whipping by. Steve takes the wheel today, oddly pleased about being allowed to drive the Camaro. He takes the roads at just above the speed limit, not necessarily following the main interstate but not avoiding it, either. They need to find a motel later, after all, and small towns are the last place Billy wants to be with a cute boy and a stash of magazines in the trunk.

 _Speaking of_.

“Did you actually buy those last night?” Steve asks, eye on the road. He concentrates harder, lately, especially when he’s in the driver’s seat—but he jumped at the chance to drive, not just because of Billy’s morning aches and pains. Sitting there, Billy can’t help but stare, can’t help but watch Steve fidget and bounce his left leg, lower lip between his teeth. Not like Steve can see him—but the silence must be enough of an indication. “I didn’t leave you at the last gas station, did I?”

“I’m here,” Billy says, breaks into a yawn. Just after two in the afternoon, and he already wants a nap. “And you really think I didn’t?”

“Well,” Steve starts, “I didn’t see you walk in with them, and normally you’re flashy about showing off your prizes. So what’d you do?”

“Uh uh,” Billy tuts. Crossing a bare ankle over the other, he pats Steve’s thigh, squeezing the muscle tight. “Play your cards right, and you’ll find out tonight.”

The whine Steve lets out goes straight to Billy’s cock: subtle, but still there, a quick moment of heated breath. Gradually, he slides up and inside Steve’s thigh, drawing slow, wide circles with two fingers over where he suspects Steve’s cock is tucked. For all his credit, Steve keeps his composure, but opens just that bit further. “So what are we?” Steve asks, sitting up straighter.

Softly, the tape deck plays, not loud enough to mask Billy’s resounding purr. “Well, I like you, and you tolerate me,” he says. “I’m one-night stand material, but you?” Glancing over, he squeezes Steve’s thigh, feels his cock twitch in his palm. “You look steady. Kinda goofy, but you wear your heart on your sleeve. That’s what gets you hurt, you let people in too easily.”

Steve huffs, chews his lip. “How long’d it take you to psychoanalyze me like that?”

“Moment I saw you,” Billy says. He lets go shortly after, hanging his hand over the center console. “Looked right into your eyes and told myself, this one’s trouble. You got these eyes, Harrington, like you’re haunted, like you don’t wanna get hurt, but you can’t help but throw yourself right into it.”

“God, you and Robin would get along just fine,” Steve says, thumping the headrest. “She does this too, y’know, tries to get me to talk about all my trauma, or whatever. ‘Cause up until you moved in, I couldn’t sleep. Didn’t sleep, a lot, ‘cause I’ve got all this—shit in my head, like I’ll remember the damn dogs coming after me, or the fucking Russians—”

“You’ve still never talked about that,” Billy adds, but Steve plows on.

“—and the kids, how fucking terrified they were, and I couldn’t help them, and just… Shit like that. ‘Cause I do care,” he sighs, wipes his good eye. “Too much. Hell, I’m still not over Nancy.” He smiles, such a fragile thing, fraught with anger. “Like, I’ll think about her, and I’ll just go down that road again, and it hurts. You ever had your heart broken like that?”

 _Yeah_ , Billy wants to say. _Every time you look at me, and you don’t want me back_.

“Then,” Steve says, disbelief in his tone, “you walked in, in your leather jacket and your nipples, and you knock me off my pedestal—”

“My nipples?” Billy laughs, shoves Steve’s shoulder. “That’s all you got outta me, my nipples?”

“They’re—” Faltering, Steve slaps the steering wheel. “They’re cute, is all.”

Billy can’t help but snort, lungs spasming in his chest. “Harrington—”

“And,” Steve stops him with a hand to Billy’s wrist, “I swear, I thought you were gonna eat me alive. You terrorized me, you know that? Only, my dick didn’t catch the memo—”

 _Oh_. That’s interesting.

“—and I spent all of Chemistry hard. Like, all semester. I just sat there and stared at the back of your head, and I wanted to—”

“Harrington.” Billy wrenches his arm free, only to grab Steve by the hand, squeezing tight. “Save it for later, yeah? Might make things a whole lot better for you if you just shut up.”

Slowly, carefully, Steve nods, his inhale shuddering. His jeans tent, and Billy teases Steve’s cock, never with the intent to get him off—Steve stays hard for the next hour, and Billy sings along with the radio, off-tune and apparently hilarious.

-+-

By the time they finish dinner at the only diner on the south side of Lexington, Nebraska, the sun has already set, bathing the plains in pitch darkness, aside from the scattered streetlights and the neon glow of their motel sign. Sprawled out on one of the two mattresses—last night’s empty bed didn’t get any use, either—Billy reclines with his back propped up with pillows, one of the magazines in his lap. He hears the shower running behind the closed bathroom door, along with Steve humming along to some song on the radio, one of the ones Billy protested against and Steve cranked up higher just to spite him.

That was hours ago—this is now, and Steve is only a few feet away from him, separated by a door, an insinuation lingering in the air. Steve wants him—to what extent, Billy still has no clue, but it leaves him wanting regardless, a steady fire roiling in his gut. That, and the magazine helps, with its spread of well-muscled men probably twice his age, with short-clipped hair and thick chests and fucking _chest hair_ , which apparently Steve has but Billy has never quite been able to grow in as thick. His mustache is pathetic compared to these guys.

Steve could probably pull it off, if he didn't insist on shaving every day. Just another thing to fantasize about, Steve’s ability to grow an entire forest on his pecs and the trail of it leading down into his waistband, ungroomed because he probably doesn't even try, and Billy wants to get his mouth on it, lick the sweat off him—

“Fuck,” Billy mumbles before flipping the page and shoving a hand down his briefs.

The rest of his clothes, he abandoned after his shower, strewn on the bathroom floor and smelling of road dirt and sweat and cheap hamburgers. Steve watched him exit the room, steam trailing after him, and promptly locked himself inside, leaving Billy to his own devices.

Said device is currently half-hard in his palm and growing, the tip leaking where he rubs the tip with his thumb. Idly, he strokes himself and imagines, briefly, what it might be like, if he could get Steve into bed like the man in the photos, toned and thick where he needs to be, coarse hair peppering his chest and down to his navel, sinking even lower. His mouth waters; he hasn’t sucked a cock in what feels like ages, not since Travis let him suck him off at Tina’s party, crammed into a hallway closet that smelled like bleach and mothballs. He was out of practice then, but Travis held him like he was precious, until he fucked the back of Billy’s throat and Billy gagged and choked and spat after Travis came.

He never even got off after, too ashamed of what he’d done, and Neil could smell the cologne on him when he got home. The rest of the night, he barely remembers.

Steve would be different though, he assumes. For all of his aloofness, Billy bets he’d be a beast between the sheets, all lean muscle and a filthy mouth—Billy wants to be devoured by him.

Head thrown back, he barely notices the shower has shut off until the door opens, and Steve lets out a scandalized noise a second later, towel wrapped around his waist and hair standing in every direction. “Really?” Steve asks, an octave or two higher than he probably intends, and tugs his towel tighter. “Right here?”

Billy wiggles his tongue in invitation. Steve inhales, ragged and strained. “Where else am I gonna do it? C’mon, you know you wanna.”

All five stages of grief flash across Steve’s face before he makes his decision, to drop the towel—and Billy’s hand freezes, eyes gone wide. Within grabbing distance, Steve’s cock hangs, limp but apparently gaining interest under Billy’s gaze. He’s big, bigger than Billy originally thought, and uncut, foreskin nearly covering the head. Billy groans and reaches for him, grabbing Steve’s thigh. “Where’ve you been hiding that?” he asks, eyes half-lidded.

Steve doesn’t deign him with an answer, just shoves Billy over onto the other side of the mattress and crawls in after. Billy moves all too willingly, briefly relishing Steve’s warmth before Steve yanks the magazine out of his hands and flips it to the front cover. “That why you got a caterpillar on your lip?” Steve says, mirthful, and strokes a finger across Billy’s upper lip.

Billy nips his fingertip, dragging his tongue across it. “Hot, right?” he asks. Steve swallows and looks back down at the magazine. Billy shrugs off his briefs and pitches them across the room. “Here, open up,” he says, and before Steve can even think to protest, Billy hooks his leg over Steve’s, spreading him just that bit wider.

“Dude,” Steve half-shouts, red-faced. Billy slaps his inner thigh, and watches Steve’s face heat as he kneads the thick muscle there, trailing his fingers up, _up_ —“So we’re really gonna do this?”

Quirking a brow, Billy teases the crease of his hip. “What, you thought I was yanking your chain? Trust me, I can get off with my right hand just fine, but,” he leans over, lips pressed to Steve’s ear, “having someone here’s always more fun.”

Steve downright trembles, every inch of his body shivering under Billy’s weight. He drops the magazine between his legs, arm pressed up against Billy’s side, and leans in, breath glancing off Billy’s lips. So close—such a tease, with that mouth, pouting lips just begging for it. Billy can’t look away.

“I went to the pool, once,” Steve starts. In the corner of his eye, he watches Steve’s hand move, circled fist wrapped loosely around his thickening cock; Billy mirrors him with his left hand, the other still clinging to Steve’s thigh. “I was supposed to pick one of the kids up, only, you’d just gotten on shift, so I kinda—hid. By the front desk.”

Smirking, Billy digs his fingers in, just to hear Steve gasp. “Couldn’t take your eyes off me, huh?” he rumbles, nudges his way into Steve’s space to suck at his neck. He tastes like soap, smells even softer, like magnolias and vanilla, and Billy wants to live in it, wants to wallow in his scent. “Bet I could lift you.”

“Probably could,” Steve manages, heated. He switches hands and takes Billy’s thigh, mirroring him, fingers slick with precome, and if that isn’t the hottest thing Billy has felt in years. “Think the first time I saw you is when I first started thinking about guys like… like this.” Billy latches onto the spot underneath his ear; Steve whimpers, his pace jumping. “Couldn’t talk about it with anyone, and some nights, I just went home and beat off until my dick hurt.”

“It’s not a toy,” Billy says against Steve’s cheek. Glancing down, he moves from Steve’s thigh to his balls, rolling them in his palm and laughing when Steve squirms away. “You gotta treat it right, don't take your frustrations out on it. It’ll get the wrong idea.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve pants, then laughs, right against Billy’s mouth.

So close to a kiss—Billy bridges the gap and takes Steve’s lower lip between his own, and to his delight, Steve doesn’t push him away. Part of Billy still thinks Steve is only doing this to entertain him, or to get out of Hawkins no matter the cost; Steve crushes that thought when he kisses back, and all Billy hears is the sound of their slick fists and heated breaths and even hotter moans.

“I wanted,” Billy says between kisses, and shifts his weight to sit between Steve’s thighs, hooking Steve’s legs over his own, “wanted to suck you off.” Steve groans, stealing another kiss. “Thought about your cock late at night—”

“Want you to,” Steve says, as close to a beg as he can probably get. Foreheads pressed together, Steve brushes Billy’s hand away and takes his cock, his fingers so unfamiliar yet so soft, so _good_ —“You ever done it?”

“Yeah,” Billy says, heart in his throat. Steve strokes him with such efficiency, such single-minded focus, that all Billy can do is hold on, caressing Steve’s cheek and sharing breaths, pleasure solely Steve’s to take. “Yeah, couple— _fuck_ , _don’t stop_ —couple times—”

A blown pupil stares back at Billy, the look in his eyes incendiary—and Billy wants to burn. “Thought about you, on your knees,” Steve says, speeds up, and Billy feels the heat rising, so close to cresting—“I’d pull your hair, like this—” Steve does, fingers taking Billy’s hair by the root and tugging—

And Billy comes with a whimper, mouth slack where he mouths kisses into Steve’s throat, the rest of his body tensed, poised to break with the barest touch. White streaks Steve’s fist and across the magazine abandoned between them; Billy only notices after the fact, and hides a laugh in Steve’s neck. “Fuck,” he says, hoarse. “Fuck, baby, think I’m seeing stars.”

“I can see that,” Steve says, kisses Billy’s temple. “Hey, you kinda…”

“Blew my damn mind,” Billy says, slurred, but pushes Steve onto his back. He tosses the magazine to the floor—he’ll wipe it off later—and settles between Steve’s thighs, a smirk on his lips. “Might as well blow yours, huh?”

Steve nods, frantic—Billy shuts him up with a single touch.

-+-

Three in the morning comes with a heavy weight in Billy’s chest, not from the chill of waking up in a bed alone, nor from the cold seeping through the windowpane, but from the ever-present ache that was always there, but only now settles in, living in his bones and keeping him rooted to the bed. Snow falls outside, a few flakes fluttering past.

Amidst it all, Billy finds Steve sitting at the table by the window, legs propped up on the heating unit, face turned to the parking lot beyond the partially open curtains. Dressed in only his boxers, he holds a cigarette to his lips, unlit, lighter nowhere to be seen. Just a reminder, then, something to take the edge off, even if he can’t bring himself to smoke.

Looking at him hurts. Billy wishes he knew why.

“You having second thoughts?” Billy asks, draping an arm over his face. In the darkness, he doesn't see the way Steve looks at him, if he does at all.

Slowly, Steve sighs, deep enough that Billy briefly wonders if he plans to inhale. “I don’t know what any of this means,” he admits. The chair creaks; knuckles rap across the tabletop. Never once does Billy hear a lighter. “We don’t like each other, Billy. This is just… lust.”

 _Now_ Billy knows. “Wow,” he says, and tucks the sheets tighter around himself. “Out of all the ways I’ve been turned down, that’s a new one.”

“Just—shut up.” Bare feet hit the floor—a weight joins him on the bed, too far away for comfort. “Shut up, I’m trying to… I gotta think, okay?”

Billy doesn’t bother to fight him. Just breathing hurts right now, and Steve’s words do little to help.

“Look, I… I have every right to hate you. Everyone else did, because it’s like you wanted them to. You never let anyone get close enough to know you, and you probably wanted it that way. It’d make what we’re doing easier, because you wouldn’t have any strings attached. Except, I’m your string, and it’s freaking me out.”

Steve takes a moment to gather himself, his breaths rabbit-quick in the quiet of the room. Eyes shut, Billy places his hands over his stomach.

“I’m not good at living,” Steve says, even softer. Secretive. “You’re right. I let myself get too attached to people, and I don’t deal with trauma well. Like, at all. I bottle everything up and then blame everyone around me whenever I can’t take it anymore. I’m not… I’m not a good person to be around. I’ve got enough baggage that therapists don’t want me as a client, because I ‘can’t be helped.’ Do you know what it’s like, to have someone tell you that you’re broken to your face?”

Swallowing, Billy nods. “Heard it every day.”

“I don’t—I don’t like it,” Steve says. The sheets shift; Steve curls into himself, forehead pressed to his knees. “I don’t like me. And I don’t see how you can like me, because all I’ve ever been is a pretty face. But you look at me like… like I’m worth something. And I’m not. I can’t protect anyone, and when I try, I end up like… I can’t fucking see, man.” He laughs, trailing into a sob. “I’m fucking blind, and I can’t do this—”

Despite his body’s protests, Billy sits up and takes Steve into his arms, and swallows a hiss when Steve grabs him just as tightly, nails sharp along his spine. His scars still haven’t entirely healed, but scolding Steve now just defeats the purpose of _helping_ him. “We can stop,” he says. His stomach clenches when Steve begins to cry, long and loud, only half muffled into Billy’s shoulder. “If you want, I can take you home.”

“No,” Steve sobs, clings to Billy tighter. “No, I wanna stay, I just—I don’t know what to do, Billy. I don't know what to do with my life, ‘cause my dad’s breathing down my neck, and I can’t stand the video store, and my GPA is too low to get into college because the doctor diagnosed me with dyslexia way too late, and—”

Billy shushes him, a hand to the back of Steve’s head. “Breathe for me, okay?” he asks, waiting until Steve nods. “In, out, can you do that?”

Another nod, even more frantic. Sucking in air through his nose, Billy holds it until he sees stars, then lets it out, listening to Steve follow along, if a bit slower, more pained. “Again, just like that,” he says, and inhales, just like the doctors told him in the hospital, when the world got too quiet, when his heart began to race.

Steve’s death grip on his spine lessens to a dull hold, and his constant tremors quell. Slowly, Billy trails his fingers down Steve’s back, then up again; Steve sighs into his skin. “You shouldn’t like me,” Steve mumbles, pulling away. “Look at me, I’m—”

“You’re just as much of a mess as I am.” With careful fingers, Billy wipes away the wetness beneath Steve’s eyes, the mess beneath his nose. “You know what I did when I got mad? When my dad got me so wired? I fucked and I fought everyone I could, because it meant I had control. Because if I didn't have that, it meant I was weak, that I was some little…” The words taste acrid on his tongue. “I don’t cope. But I’m learning, and I’m trying, and you gotta try too. Talk to me, Steve.”

“When does it get easier?” Steve asks. Looking up, he meets Billy’s gaze.

Billy rubs the circles under his eyes, wishes he could erase them with just a touch. “I don’t know,” he says in all honesty. “I’d tell you if I knew.”

It takes a minute, but Steve nods, bowing his head. “You need pills?”

Speaking of. “Couple. How could you tell?”

To that, Steve snorts. “You snore like an old man. I broke my foot freshman year, and it still hurts when it gets cold out, so… you could probably use something.”

“Yeah.” Before he can talk himself out of it, Billy leans in to drop a kiss to the corner of Steve’s lips, and feels Steve’s smile, barely there. “Back to sleep?”

A nod. “Okay.”

-+-

The smell of coffee drags Billy out of a dream and into the daylight, where the sun is beginning to rise, bathing everything it touches in oranges and golds. On the ground, snow sits, pristine, while trucks plow it off the roads to create muddied snowbanks. The spot where Steve previously rested is cold, and he no longer sits by the window, his presence gone from immediate view.

But there’s coffee. Probably cheap coffee, but caffeine nonetheless. Blinking blearily at the ceiling, Billy rolls onto his back and palms his face, only to hear the television flick on, channels flipping every few seconds. “Hey,” he says, turning to face the other bed, where Steve sits, dressed in jeans and wearing Billy’s coat and nothing else. “You get coffee?”

“Office was open,” Steve answers mid-yawn. He motions to the nightstand, and Billy flips onto his stomach, grabbing the cup closest to him. It tastes like sludge; he drinks it anyway, needing something other than adrenaline to wake him up for once. “I was looking in the phone book a few minutes ago.”

Glancing up, Billy watches Steve stretch his arms above his head. “That bored, huh?”

“No, just, hear me out.” Standing, Steve takes the two steps necessary to crawl back into bed with Billy, sprawling out on the other side. “There’s no places in town, and not that I expected there to be since this place is like… I’m surprised they have a stoplight, but I want a tattoo.”

Billy balks, lips parted. “Wow, pretty boy,” he starts, placing the cup back on the nightstand. Sitting up, he brackets Steve’s head with his elbows; red rises high on Steve’s cheeks, the heat in his eyes unmistakable. “Didn’t think you were a masochist like that.”

“I’m not.” Even as he shakes his head, Steve laughs. “It sounds like something fun to do, though? How’d that one feel?” Reaching up, Steve covers the skull inked into Billy’s bicep, fingertips tracing over the lines.

Ducking his head, Billy hides his face in Steve’s neck. “Wasn’t that bad. Been thinking about getting it covered, though.” Now is the perfect opportunity—and Steve is offering to sit right there with him, without even knowing what it feels like. Sharp, at first, but dull after a while, a perfect catharsis, and of his own volition. “What were you thinking of?”

Steve presses a finger to his lips; Billy kisses it. “Secret,” he says with a grin. “It’s super dorky.”

Billy huffs a laugh. “Wouldn’t expect anything else from you, now, would I?”

-+-

Steve changes their initial intended route about five seconds after seeing the weather forecast for the day. Supposedly, a cold front is set to rush into the northern Rockies and bring with it several feet of snow in the upper elevations, and Billy barely has enough tread left for wet roads, let alone ice and snow and road salt. And despite the disappointment, Billy agrees to cut westward rather than the northward trek through Montana that he’d anticipated.

Though, Wyoming has its own perks, with its vast prairieland and rolling flats. This far out, he can gun the engine as fast as it’ll go in blatant disregard of the speed limit, with the windows rolled down and the music cranked up. Steve, for the most part, puts up with it, and smiles the few times Billy pats his thigh and tangles their fingers together over the center console.

It’s heavenly, downright peaceful—and what he’s wanted for a long, long time.

The tattoo shop, Steve finds a few blocks from their motel, with flash in the lobby and neon signs hanging in the windows. Nothing that Billy hasn’t seen before, but compared to California and Hawkins, it’s more open, the shop taking up the entire building, aside from a closed-in back room. A wooden wall separates the front lobby from the rest of the space, keeping visitors and patrons apart unless necessary.

A woman, seated at the front desk with her attention barely focused on the magazine spread out in front of her, greets them with a smile. Five piercings adorn each of her ears, and two diamond studs jut from the skin to either side of her lips; a multitude of tattoos decorate her skin, from shoulder to fingertip, most of it flash but with a few larger pieces tucked in.

Namely, the angel on her left shoulder, naked in all her glory. “Wicked,” Billy says, and she laughs, extending a hand.

“Name’s Vivian,” she says, gripping Billy’s hand tight. She switches to Steve next, and Billy laments the loss of her touch, her calluses jarring compared to the rest of her. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ears, glancing between the two of them. “What can I do for you boys today?”

“I think I have an idea,” Steve says, mildly unsure. Billy leaves him briefly to stare at the flash on the walls, hands in his jacket pockets while Steve talks. “I don’t have a reference, but I wanted to get a raven right,” he stops to place a hand over his pec, “here.”

“A raven?” Billy says, brow lifted.

Both Steve and Vivian look over to him, Steve fully turned and Vivian with her elbows on the tabletop. “Yeah, like Huginn or Muninn. ‘Cause they brought information to Odin from all over Midgard and, y’know,” he taps the bright yellow patch over his eye, “one eye.”

 _Huh_. “I wish that didn’t make sense.”

“Oh, it does,” Vivian laughs and pats Steve’s hand. “I think I have what you’re looking for. And you,” she turns to Billy, her gaze raking over him, expectant, “what’s on your mind today?”

Honestly, he has no clue. Hasn’t put much thought into it beyond wanting to cover up his past mistakes, but Steve’s idea has more meaning than Billy could’ve ever thought of himself. The ravens are a pair—and in a way, so are they. “Same thing he’s having,” he says, to Steve’s abject shock and Vivian’s delight. Billy waggles his brows; Steve hides his laugh behind his hand. “I’ve got this,” he says, and pulls off his jacket enough to expose his bare arm, which Vivian looks at appraisingly. “How’s that sound?”

“Sounds right up my alley,” Vivian says before unlocking the wooden gate and allowing them inside. “You two chill out here, I’ll be back in a few minutes, yeah?”

Billy takes the first barstool he can find and leaves Steve for the reclining bench. “You’re first, baby,” he says, tongue between his teeth. Steve rolls his eyes and hoists himself up, tucking his hands between his knees. Music plays steadily from the boombox on the front desk, some song Billy has never heard but Steve picks up within minutes. Probably because that’s all Steve is concentrated on, aside from wringing his knuckles. “You good?”

Steve nods, stuttered; Billy takes one of his hands, tucking his thumb into Steve’s palm. “Yeah,” he sighs, then runs his free hand through his hair. “Tired. Kinda forgot this involves needles.”

 _Oh_. “You can close your eyes,” Billy offers. Solemnly, Steve shakes his head. “Want me to hold your hand?”

“I’m not five,” Steve retorts, but doesn’t exactly say no. He taps the heels of his shoes together. “What happened at the mall, I got… stuck with something. Some kinda truth serum or whatever, and I thought I was fine after, ‘cause I’ve always been good with shots, but then I went to the hospital to have them look at my eye, and I saw what was on the tray, and I passed out.”

Billy can’t help it—he laughs, despite Steve’s glare. “Good place to pass out, if you’re gonna do it,” he says. Steve rolls his eyes. “C’mon. It’ll be fine. Besides, you don’t even see the needles. She might have to shave your fuzz, though.” Billy taps Steve’s pec for emphasis.

“Tragic,” Steve says, deadpan. Speaking of. “How long do you think she’ll take? ‘Cause it’s cold in here, and you have a freaky obsession with my nipples—”

“I do not,” Billy says, a hand over his heart. “And if I’m remembering right, _you’re_ the one who’s been looking at _my_ nipples.”

“Yeah, but I’m not—” Steve stops, looks over his shoulder. Leaning in, he drops his voice a few registers lower, doing everything to Billy’s libido that it shouldn't. “I’m not the one who spent twenty minutes—”

“I think I have it,” Vivian announces from across the room, two sheets of transfer paper in her hands. Walking over, she shows them both the sketches of two ravens, both of them facing each other, one standing atop a skull and the other with the strings of an eyepatch in its beak, said patch singed at the edges and burning. “Now, with yours,” she says to Billy, “I can cover the cigarette if you want, because I like what you’ve already got, but it could be better.”

Billy nods and turns the paper over to Steve, who follows suit, plastering on his best smile.

“Alright, shirt off,” Vivian says and gloves up, wiggling her fingers at Steve. “Lemme see what I’m working with, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve squeaks, red-faced.

Billy chuckles at his expense, and ultimately gives up his spot on Vivian’s chair while Vivian prepares the inks and a terrifying assortment of needles. Leaning against the counter, he watches Steve strip his shirt off and fold it over the top of the chair, exposing all of that beautiful skin that Billy touched last night. It feels like so long ago, between one state and the next—three days, and it’s already been a lifetime. A lifetime he would rather have than spend another day in Hawkins.

Vivian makes quick use of a razor to shave off whatever of Steve’s chest hair she needs, giving Billy no time to mourn its loss before she presses the transfer paper over Steve’s skin, leaving behind the purpled lines of a one-eyed raven. “Last chance to make sure,” she says, handing Steve a mirror. Shakily, he takes it and looks at himself, brows lifting. “I can adjust it if you need me to. How’s that?”

“Perfect,” Steve says, a bit winded. Over the edge of the mirror, Billy catches Steve’s eye, and nods. “You’re really good.”

“So I’ve been told,” Vivian says, smiling with all her teeth. “And, here we go,” she pauses to pull a few levers to adjust the bench height, all while Steve flops, unhelpfully, onto his back. “Just lie back and relax, yeah? Your friend can hold your hand if it gets too much, but it shouldn’t take too long.”

“Okay,” Steve rasps.

The barest edge of panic creeps into his voice, and Billy rounds him in an instant, pulling up a chair on the opposite side and plopping down onto it. Steve grabs for him, clinging to Billy’s hand while Vivian settles in on Steve’s bad side, her touch the only thing to let him know that she’s there. At least he can’t see what she’s doing this way, Steve’s only saving grace.

She doesn’t count down for him, doesn’t give Steve much warning other than “This might pinch” before the whirring starts, and Steve tenses rather than relax, his body gone taut. “Relax,” Billy encourages, wincing under the weight of Steve’s grip. “It’ll hurt more if you tense up.”

“Says you,” Steve hisses through his teeth. Still, it takes him another few minutes to calm down, mostly guided by Billy’s touch and the music on the radio.

“So what brings you boys to Wyoming?” Vivian asks after she finishes up the linework. She switches out the needles; Billy doesn’t watch her, his focus too much on Steve’s currently blissed-out face. He might be asleep. Billy had a friend in Bakersfield who slept through an entire session.

“Road trip,” Steve says after a few seconds, strained but relaxed in the lull.

“I’m moving back home,” Billy explains as he pets the top of Steve’s hand with his thumb. “He needed a vacation and called shotgun before I could say no.”

Steve laughs, then stops when Vivian braces one hand on his chest, the needle purring back to life. “Don’t lie to her,” he says, wincing. Shading hurts the worst, that much Billy remembers. “Do need a vacation, but you invited me. It’s snowing in Indiana right now.”

“That’s always fun,” Vivian says. Billy gives her a look; Steve would laugh, if he weren’t being held down. “I’m from Florida. Pretty much the only person in this town that likes it when we get snowed in. Sure as hell beats lovebugs.”

“Gross,” Steve says, like he knows what a lovebug is. Billy sure as hell doesn’t. “Used to get those when I was a kid. We drove to the beach one day, and they were all over the grill of the car—”

“Where are you from?” Billy asks, interest piqued.

Vivian doesn’t stop, but looks up; Steve turns his head, lip between his teeth. “Tallahassee.”

Fucking—Florida. Steve is from _Florida_ , not midwestern hell like he thought. “Holy shit,” Billy gapes. “And here I thought you were some kinda ice princess. Did you have gators for best friends?”

“Shut up,” Steve groans. “I’ve only ever seen a gator once in my life.”

“Well, as one Floridian to another,” Vivian chimes in, letting up long enough to swipe some ointment from her fingers onto Steve’s chest, “I did have one, and I named him Charlie, and he tried to eat my neighbor’s chickens every morning.”

“Oh my god,” Steve says, breaking into a laugh, only because Vivian has finished. Billy joins right in, forehead leaning on the edge of the bench. “See, Billy’s from like, Santa Barbara or somewhere, all he’s ever seen are whales.”

“I’ve seen other things too,” Billy snarks back while Vivian and Steve snicker. “You haven’t lived until you’ve been chased up the beach by a snake.”

“Been there,” Vivian says, her eyes bright, mirthful. “Miami’s fun and games until the pythons breach the levees.”

And God, doesn’t that sound like a story. Vivian cleans the blood from Steve’s chest and wipes it down with more ointment before taping a bandage over it. Billy takes his place shortly after, while Vivian adjusts the chair height and changes out the needles, trashing everything and starting over new. Shrugging off his jacket, Steve takes it before pulling on his own shirt, wincing all the while. For once, Billy doesn’t bother calling him a baby; a year ago, he might have, but he knows pain all too well now, knows how it varies from person to person, and Steve put himself dangerously out of his comfort zone for this. He doesn’t need Billy needling him over something so minor.

Besides, from what Billy saw, it looks good. Will probably look even better once the swelling has gone down.

“You’re up, California boy,” Vivian chirps. She changes out her gloves and presses the sheet of transfer paper over Billy’s existing tattoo, the lines matching up perfectly. “How’s that look?”

Steve takes the mirror from the counter and hands it to Billy. It looks better than he anticipated, the shape of it overshadowing every moment he went through just to get the first one. This is new, different—this has meaning. A symbol of death, but holding in the skull’s mouth an ouroboros, meant as rebirth. Steve is embracing his past—Billy is reinventing himself, rising from the proverbial ashes.

The second the needles start up, Billy relaxes back into the seat, eyes closed. Steve holds his hand without asking, and Billy roots himself to his touch, loses himself between the softness and the pain. The first sting he’s ever felt that hasn’t been followed up with threats, with violence; Steve holds him through it, and never lets go, even after it’s over.

 _Maybe this is what love feels like_ , he thinks, gripping Steve’s hand. And no one will take this from him, not this time.

-+-

“Why do we keep renting doubles?” Steve asks later that night, while Billy is drifting and on the verge of sleep. Billy glares and flicks Steve’s nose. “Hey, stop, seriously.” Frowning, Steve grabs his finger. “It’d be a dollar cheaper. Though, thinking about it—”

“Already weird enough, two guys shacking up in the same room,” Billy rumbles. He hooks a finger around Steve’s. “Lucky no one’s started asking questions yet.”

Steve sighs through his nose, flopping his head onto a pillow. His hair fans out over the fabric, some of it hanging into his face; brushing it away, Billy watches him smile, eyes fluttering shut. In the dark of the room, Billy can barely make out the shape of the raven adorning Steve’s chest, still red around the edges but healing nicely, covered in ointment. With his own, he keeps his arm above the covers, wary of staining the sheets. They’re a matching set.

He shouldn’t be as happy as he is.

“Once we get there,” Steve starts again, just as the blackness begins to taint Billy’s senses. If Steve wakes him up again, he might cry. “Do you have anywhere to stay? I know you’ve got cash, but…”

To that, Billy sighs and rubs his eyes. “I’m gonna call some people once we get into town,” he says. “Friends might take me in, and my… I might call my mom. See if she’s still out there.” A laugh. “She left when I was a kid, and… Shit, it’s been over a decade now.”

A decade too long, in his opinion. Right after the move to Hawkins, Billy received a letter in the mail and squirreled it away before Neil could see, with no return address on the envelope but one tucked inside, written in the interior corner. A name—Loraine Haywood—an address and a phone number, and nothing else, not even a letter. Neil would’ve burned it on sight. Billy kept it, and still has it in the bottom of his duffel. Hopefully, it still works. Hopefully she never gave up on him, even when he never returned her call.

Steve runs the backs of his fingers over Billy’s cheek, blind in his movements; they really should switch sides, but Steve always insists on being on the right, facing away from light sources. Though, given Steve’s anxiety towards sounds in the dead of night… “Talk to me,” Billy says, swallowing past the lump in his throat. Steve furrows a brow. “You know my story, the runts’ve probably told you all about how they threw me in a sauna. But you never talk about what happened to you.”

Slowly, methodically, Steve blinks, his breaths quickening. He pulls his hand away, but Billy takes it, gentle, giving Steve something to hold onto. “Do we have any booze?” he asks in all sincerity.

Billy nods, his stomach clenched. Not how he wanted to have this conversation, but if it’ll help Steve cope, then he’ll do what he can. “Pants on,” he announces, crawling out of bed. “Trauma puts bad mojo on things, and I’m not stinking up this bed with it.”

Steve agrees with little hesitation and peels out of bed after him, nearly tripping over his own two feet. Meanwhile, Billy reaches into the bottom of his bag and pulls out a flask, half-empty but more than enough for what Steve will need. He shrugs on his coat before stepping outside, dressed in everything but a shirt; Steve follows, and together, they sit beside the vending machine, its steady drone the only noise in the night. No lights shine in the windows across the motor court, and no cars drive past, the hour too late for traffic.

Belatedly, Billy remembers what day it is.

“Okay, so,” Steve says, palm open. Billy hands him the flask and watches him drink, swallowing two long pulls before coming up for air. “This is gonna sound totally off the rails.”

“I’ve probably heard crazier,” Billy says, and warms with Steve’s laugh. A bit looser, now, but still just as somber.

Leaning back against the motel’s stucco wall, Steve closes his eyes. “It’s probably all Dustin’s fault, but I’m not gonna tell him that, and I’m not blaming him for anything. He picked up some secret code in Russian on his radio, and Robin couldn’t let it go and translated it, and we ended up finding a secret bunker under the mall. Apparently,” he stops, swallowing, “they were trying to open the portal, y’know, to do something with the monsters.”

Unfortunately, that explains more than Billy ever wanted to know—and it makes sense, worst of all.

“But we got caught,” Steve continues, draining the rest of the flask too quickly. “The guys down there tried to… Pretty sure they did torture us, me and Robin. And the whole time I thought, this is it, I’m gonna die down here, and no one’s gonna find my body, and my parents are gonna be fuckin’ grateful that their idiot son is dead. But I couldn’t let Robin die, and I couldn't let Dustin and Erica get caught up in it, ‘cause they’re just kids, y’know? Just stupid kids, but they got their whole lives ahead of them.

“But the guys just… They thought we were spies, and they just kept hitting us, and they had all these… things, like the shit you see in movies. Like they were gonna start pulling out our teeth and nails and—” He shudders, curling into himself. With a shaking hand, Billy covers Steve’s nape, waiting for him to breathe again. “They pumped us full of this… I called it a truth serum before? And I was finally coming off of it when the firework show went down, and then…”

“Then I died,” Billy says. Final. Steve lived, and Billy died, only for the paramedics to find his pulse in the ambulance, and then after that, he spent a fully twenty-four hours on the operating table while every trauma surgeon in the hospital tried to reconstruct his entire chest cavity. He didn’t wake up for two weeks—no one visited, no one except Max, and the one instance, Steve. “Are you okay?”

Steve shakes his head. Wrapping his arms around his shins, he rests his head atop a knee, mist spilling from his lips. “One day, it’s gonna happen,” he mumbles. “They’re gonna come back, and this time, they’ll kill me. This wasn't the first time, Billy. And what’s sad is, the monsters, I can handle, ‘cause they know what they want. But people, man. Can’t trust anyone.”

Billy nods, stroking up the rigid line of Steve’s spine under his jacket. “I’m glad you told me,” he says. Steve bows his head, his sigh deflating. “Have you talked to anyone about it? Robin?”

“No,” Steve says. The exhaustion in his tone weighs Billy down. “I mean, as part of the NDA I’ve so clearly violated at this point, they offered therapists, but I never took them up on it. and Robin… She’s got her own problems. She’ll talk to me about it and I try to listen, but…” Another breath; he leans closer into Billy, forehead to his knees. “I thought I had it under control, but the nightmares and the… I didn’t start sleeping until you jumped into my bed.”

“I didn’t jump,” Billy teases, earning a chuckle. “I more or less fell in and you didn’t stop me.”

“You’re good company,” Steve says, and— _wow_. Profound. He takes a moment before he speaks again, looking at Billy all the while. “What are we?”

 _I don’t know_ , Billy thinks. He loves Steve, yes—has loved him ever since he saw him—but relationships are difficult, and Steve is going home next week, after he’s had his fill of California and Billy’s company. Steve won’t stay, and flights are expensive. Steve won’t _stay_.

Rather than reply, Billy answers the only way he knows how—he kisses Steve, closed-mouthed but sweet. And Steve kisses him back, such a soft thing, smiling against Billy’s lips. “I’m not good boyfriend material,” Billy whispers.

“Neither am I,” Steve says. “But I’ll try.”

 _But you’re leaving_. Billy doesn’t want to let him go, not when he finally has Steve on his side. Not when he has Steve in his arms every night, not when he’s more at peace than he ever has been, and ever will be.

 _I love him_ , Billy thinks. _I’ll always love him_.

-+-

The Hargrove household always celebrates Christmas. Even after his mom left, Neil made it a point to keep the tradition alive, even if it meant forcing Billy to get up on the ladder and string lights onto the gutters, despite said ladder’s shoddy integrity. More than once, he’d fallen off and almost broken something, all to teach him some sort of lesson. Whatever it was, Billy never learned, but he despised the holiday just on principle. Christmas meant work and words, and more often than not, nothing left under the tree.

Not until Max came along, at least. Because while Neil always forgot by the twenty-fifth, Max never did, and every year, she snuck presents into his room, where Neil couldn't see. Just small things, from gas stations or supermarkets, but Billy kept them all.

This year, he finds a small box tucked into an unused pocket of his duffel, wrapped in tinfoil and tied together with string. Several dents mar the wrapping, crushed from constant travel and being shoved up against the wheel well for hours at a time. Sitting on the edge of the bed with his boots half-laced, Billy rips it open with little finesse, revealing the contents—an earring. Cheap, with a cubic zirconia stud and another dangling in the shape of a teardrop, but it must’ve cost money, money Max certainly doesn't have.

Inside the lid sits a note, folded into the size of a quarter. Billy reads _Merry Christmas, don’t forget me_ , and wipes his eyes just in time for Steve to walk back inside. Cold spills in at his back; Billy stuffs the earring in his breast pocket, hoping Steve doesn’t notice.

He does, though—he always does. “You finally found it, huh?”

Found what? Steve _knew_? “How long you been sitting on that one?”

“Couple weeks.” Steve shrugs and flops down next to him, pawing at the back of Billy’s jacket. “Max dropped it off the morning we left and told me to hide it, so I did. I gotta say, I was starting to think you’d never find it.”

“Put it in the wrong pocket,” Billy says. “I used to stash my weed in there.”

“Well, now that spot’s cleared up. So what’d she get you?” Steve reaches for the pocket before Billy can react, clever fingers dipping inside—Billy pins him into the bedding for his trouble, all while Steve _giggles_ , batting Billy’s face away. Billy kisses him anyway, waiting until Steve melts underneath him to pull back; Steve chases his lips, purring into another kiss. “So, big secret, huh?”

“Maybe I’ll wear it when we get home,” Billy promises and nudges his nose into Steve’s neck. He smells like sandalwood and musk, intoxicating to his senses. “What about hopping over to Vegas?”

“Been there,” Steve says, looking utterly bored with the idea. “We’re not old enough to gamble.”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Billy sing-songs. “Come on, you’re driving today. My back’s barely hanging on.”

Steve groans. “Yours and mine. Should’ve taken the train, it’d be a hell of a lot warmer.”

 _Don’t I know it_.

-+-

The only motel in all of Las Vegas that has a vacancy is on the south end of town, close to the highway but far enough away that if he squints, Billy can make out the lights from the casinos shining on the horizon. Christmas is a horrible day for travel, despite Billy’s initial thoughts. Every restaurant from Wyoming to Nevada was closed, and the only food available had been from gas stations and truck stops.

He misses Susan’s cooking, oddly enough. Meals that didn't involve a microwave or a diner in the middle of nowhere. Hopefully wherever he stays, the place has a stove.

Despite winter plunging its way southward into the Rockies, Steve makes it a point to hang out at the pool, bundled up as he is. Billy joins him, wary, the scent of chlorine thick in the air. A cold sweat breaks out on his nape; Steve’s hand keeps the tremors at bay. Sitting on the same lounger, their sides press together, arms jostling while they eat takeout from the Chinese restaurant up the street.

Floodlights cast the water in pale blue. A tinsel tree sits in the window of an upstairs room, multi-colored lights flashing every few seconds. Cars rumble past on the interstate. Families loiter by the upstairs railing, talking amongst each other.

All of it is disorienting and terrifying, and Billy never wants this moment to end.

“I think we’re three hours away from LA,” Steve says, mouth full. Billy would laugh if he weren’t in the same position. “That where we’re going, or are we detouring?”

Billy shrugs and spears at his beef-fried rice. “We can go if you want,” he says. “Gonna stop in Victorville first, see if my mom’s still living there.”

Steve nods and casts a glance to the pool. “Do you have her number? I looked at the phone earlier, this one doesn’t eat quarters for out of state calls.”

“Hallelujah,” Billy groans. The last few motels had been determined to bleed him dry, and payphones were even worse. Some conversations are private and not for the prying ears of strangers waiting for the phone. “You gonna call your little runts tonight?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, then breaks into a yawn. “Supposed to have some big Christmas party at Dustin’s house, so I’ll call when we go back in.”

Looking to the moon, Billy hums in agreement. “Takes care of having to call Max at the same time,” he says, then, “I wanna talk to Sinclair.”

Steve chokes and beats his chest; Billy pats his back. “You wanna talk to Lucas?”

“I’ve got this thing now,” Billy says, pointing a chopstick at Steve’s lips, “where I’m apologizing for all the shit I’ve done. You were first, ‘cause the biggest mistake I ever made was trying to kill you.”

“Thanks for not killing me, by the way,” Steve quips with a smirk.

“And next is the kid.” With a sigh, Billy sets his empty container on the adjacent lounger and props his feet up on the edge. “I don’t wanna end up like my old man. That means I gotta take responsibility for my shit, ‘cause all he’s ever done is blame it on everyone else. But I did what I did, and that’s on me.”

“Good,” Steve says, nudging Billy’s shoulder. “Not saying it’s about time, but it’s good to see you processing everything. Don’t think I could’ve said that about you a year ago.”

Billy huffs. “Dying changes things.”

Sighing, Steve agrees. “Really does.”

-+-

“You’re supposed to be gambling, or partying, or something,” Dustin says, loud enough that Billy can hear him well-beyond the receiver currently pressed to Steve’s ear. Steve holds it away, wincing, then drops it to the bed between them when Dustin stops _yelling_. “I mean, what’s the point of going to Vegas and not gaming the system?”

“He could be getting married,” Lucas announces, followed by a gaggle of voices. “I’m just saying!”

“He’s not getting married!” Max shouts back. “I don’t even think he’s old enough!”

“I’m nineteen,” Steve says with an eyeroll. “And we could barely get a hotel as is, do you think we’re gonna be able to walk into a casino with fake IDs?”

“I know a guy who sells them, if you’re desperate.” Billy shoves Steve’s shoulder playfully.

Someone shouts on the other end—Dustin, by the sound of it. “You’re a bad influence on him, Hargrove,” Dustin complains, and Billy laughs. “First you kidnap him, and now you’re holding him hostage—”

“He is not,” Steve says, at the same time as Billy’s, “Can’t be kidnapped if you said yes.”

“Well, I for one think you’re all idiots,” a younger girl’s voice chimes in, then follows up with, “Hi Steven.”

“Hey, Erica,” Steve says. He looks over to Billy, grabbing the receiver. “Hey, can Billy talk to your brother for a second?”

Another round of shouting. Billy takes the phone and parses through the voices, until Lucas’ frustrated sigh rings through, far away from the noise. “What do you want?”

“Look,” Billy says, rougher than intended. He starts over, waiting for his heart to settle in the interim. Just because he intends on apologizing to everyone doesn’t mean that it doesn’t terrify him. “Look, I know this ain’t gonna make any difference between you and me. I took my shit out on you, and you didn’t deserve it. That’s my problem, and I don't have any excuses, and I’m not asking for your forgiveness or whatever, just—I’m sorry.” He stops, sucks in a breath; the world spins, Steve’s presence the only thing grounding him to reality. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you.”

For a long, pregnant second, Lucas doesn’t answer, and Billy briefly wonders if he hung up, or walked away. The voices in the background never grow closer, though, and he can still hear Lucas breathing, rough but measured. “Do better.”

Billy blinks. “What?”

“I said, do better,” Lucas says. “You say you’re not an ass? Then prove it. ‘Cause all we know of you is what you’ve done. You could be torturing Steve right now—”

“I’m not torturing Steve.” Billy throws his head back.

“That might be so,” Lucas cuts back in, “but you heard what I said. Be the bigger man and prove it. Then, maybe, we’ll talk about forgiveness if you ever show up here again.”

To an audience of only Steve, Billy nods. “Yeah,” he says, firm. “And Lucas?”

“Yeah?”

A breath. “Don’t hurt my sister.”

Lucas could laugh—could scoff and hang up and leave Steve to call them all back. Instead, he says, “I won’t, promise,” and heads back to the group, where Dustin screams about torture and Max threatens everyone, and Mike chimes in with his opinion. Billy hands the phone back to Steve and flops back into the pillows, content to listen to Steve try to fan the flames.

 _I’ll do better_ , he tells himself, eyes closed. _I won’t be him_.

-+-

Billy waits until Steve is asleep before he dials the number his mother left him. It’s far too late in the afternoon, if the clock on the nightstand is right, but tomorrow, he won’t have the nerve, and he needs a sense of direction before he gets back in the car. Four days of driving, and it’s almost come to an end, and he has nowhere to go, no plan in mind.

Admittedly, he should’ve thought this through.

No one answers on the first try, the ringing incessant and grating on his nerves. Again, he dials and listens, rapping his fingers atop his knee. He counts each ring, chewing his lip after each tone. Someone picks up on the fifth ring—a man, sounding old enough to be his father. “Haywood residence,” he says, chipper despite the hour. “How can I help you today?”

“Uh,” Billy says, eloquent. “Is Loraine home?”

“Oh,” he says, something dawning on him. “I suspect she’s expecting your call?”

“Something like that,” Billy says. Belatedly, he wishes he could take the phone outside; the cord won’t stretch that far, though, and according to the weather reports, the temperature is expected to drop into the twenties tonight.

The man calls out for Loraine, receiver muffled by his hand. For the next few seconds, Billy hears half of a conversation, ears straining for whatever words he can find. A woman’s voice follows, clearer now, a bit rougher with age, but still the same as he remembered. “Can I help you?”

“Loraine Haywood, right?” Billy asks, fidgeting. He pulls the phone’s base into his lap, curling the cord around his hand.

She laughs, melodic. “I knew you’d call, Billy. I still remember your voice. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Billy wrings the cord, tears in his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I wanted to call. I wasn’t—I didn’t ignore you, okay?”

“I know,” Loraine hums. “I know, and I figured. I’m just glad you called. I was beginning to wonder if your father—”

“Not my dad anymore,” Billy says in haste. He tugs at the cord; Steve slings a limp arm over his waist, snuffling a noise into Billy’s hip. “I left. I’m in Vegas, actually.”

“Already so close?” Her voice softens ever so slightly. Distantly, Billy hears a screen door close. “Are you coming this way?”

He could. Should, probably, but another man is apparently living with her, and no one would appreciate a teenager slumming it in their house for the foreseeable future. He can’t stay—visit, yes, but he has to find another place to live, at least until he can find a job and afford an apartment. Anything to stay off the streets, especially in this state. “I’ll drop by,” he says, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone with a spare room, would you?”

Loraine laughs, absolutely mirthful. “I can do you one better. We have a rental in the Valley that we’re not using. I hate to sound like a landlord, but I won’t ask you for rent until you find work.”

Swallowing, Billy slumps against the headboard, the adrenaline leaving his body all at once. His mother has a house—his mother won’t turn him away. “Thank you,” he says—or tries. Steve’s face doesn’t help matters, both eyes now looking up at him like Billy’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Can’t tell you how much that means.”

On the other end, Loraine sighs through her nose, and waits for a long few seconds before she speaks. “I can’t apologize for what I did to you, Billy. I can’t even begin to apologize, but you have to understand—”

“I do,” Billy says, and desperately wishes he didn't. He knows what their house was like—knows what it is like, especially with her gone. Her leaving was the hardest thing Billy ever had to reconcile with, but he understands. “Trust me, I know, and I forgive you.”

A noise, eerily resembling a sob. “Thank you. I know what I’ve put you through is hard enough, but… I’d still like to call you my son, if you’d let me. You’ll have a new little brother and sister in a few months, too.”

Shit. _Shit_. “That’s great,” he says, wiping his eyes. “I’m happy for you.”

“And you,” she says. “I’m glad you’re coming home.”

 _Me too_ , he thinks, and touches Steve’s cheek, tears in his eyes. _Me too_.

-+-

“You know what I’m thinking about?” Steve asks the following morning, towel around his waist and hair sticking up at every angle.

Billy looks up at him, buried under the sheets while he waits for the painkillers to kick in, and cocks a brow. “If it’s got anything to do with leaving this bed, I’m out,” he complains and shoves the blankets over his head.

“No, no, look at me.” Steve rips them right back off his face, and even further down, until the only thing separating them is Billy’s briefs and the hard-on that’s been sitting there for half an hour while Steve showered. “I didn’t get you anything for Christmas.”

“You bought us dinner,” Billy adds. Averts his eyes, when Steve pulls off the towel and tosses it back into the bathroom. Steam fills the room—heat floods to Billy’s cock, aided by Steve’s touch, hands sliding up his calves, to his thighs—“Are you really—”

“I’ve only given head twice,” Steve says, low. He tucks his fingers into Billy’s underwear and pulls them down, exposing Billy’s rigid cock to the chill in the room. He wilts with the temperature, but perks back up when Steve settles between his legs, kissing a path up the scarred skin of Billy’s torso. “Always had condoms, though. Which like, I know we used one last time, but—"

“Fuck,” Billy whines, and not from Steve’s touch. “Remember when school had that blood drive thing? Results came back negative, so I’m clean.”

“Great.” Steve nods, enthusiastic about it, then follows up with, “Oh, yeah, me too. Turns out, they test for a lot of shit in the hospital, so, y’know.”

Billy swallows. “Well?” he says, gesturing with his hand. “You gonna sit around and look at it all day, or are you gonna get to work?”

A smirk crosses Steve’s lips, splitting those plush lips wide. “I could,” he muses. Arms under Billy’s thighs, he pulls Billy closer, leaving him scrambling for the bedding. “But you don’t seem like the patient type.”

“Damn straight,” Billy says, gruff.

He grabs a pillow and props it behind his back while Steve settles in, his tongue doing devilish things to Billy’s hips. Whatever he thinks he’s doing, Billy intends to watch, if only to see what Steve’s mouth looks like when he’s not talking. Five days on the road, and Steve has barely shut up once. Maybe this will teach him something—or Billy, in turn.

“You trust me?” Steve asks, eyes turned upwards from where he rests, nose buried in Billy’s pubes, fingers pressed into Billy’s thighs. Billy nods, automatic, and flushes when Steve grins, pressing a kiss to the base of his cock. “Don’t tell me if it sucks.”

“Real confidence booster.” Rolling his eyes, Billy flicks Steve’s forehead. “You talk a big game for a guy with no skill.”

As it turns out, Steve does have some skill—and not the kind Billy expected. Most of the guys Billy’s fooled around with in the past have made a show of it, swallowing Billy down until they choked, barely paying any attention to what they were doing in the first place. He got off, sure, but it was never worth it in the end, especially with the handful he’d managed to score in Hawkins. He barely remembers any of their names, and they were all probably too drunk to realize they hadn’t shoved a girl into the utility closet.

Steve, though. Steve _plays_ with him, swiping his tongue along the veins and dipping into the slit, gathering up precome. Kitten licks, teasing the head; full lips take him in, just the tip, and heat surges through Billy, cock aching in Steve’s mouth. Steve pays him no mind while he gasps, and he chases Billy’s cock when it twitches, somehow always managing to get it back into his mouth without his hands.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Billy pants. Eyes closed, he reaches down and gets a hand in Steve’s hair, petting through the wet strands; with his other, he takes his cock and holds it still, allows Steve to get him off like that, with a wet mouth and even filthier tongue. “Like that, baby,” Billy says, lip between his teeth. “ _Fuck_ , baby, like that…”

For the first time, Steve doesn't bother to reply, and Billy relishes in his silence, letting Steve speak to him in other ways. One of the arms wrapped around his thigh leaves, and Billy hears the initial intake of air when Steve gets a hand around himself, his mouth growing impossibly wetter. And Billy just slides up and _in_ , moaning when Steve takes him down to the base, then up again, all heat and pressure and just enough, _there_ —

And Steve pulls off, just in time for the wave to crest, washing over him. Hand in Steve’s hair, Billy throws his head back, and groans, breath hitching while Steve laps at him, gathers up the come that spills free, dripping from his cock onto his stomach and everything in between. And Steve said _he_ was the gross one. Billy tastes himself on Steve’s tongue when Steve kisses him, hand working a frantic rhythm between them until he topples over, his orgasm less finesse and more a rough catch of lips, Steve’s moan reverberating against his skin.

“Holy shit,” Billy manages, the most he can articulate after _that_.

Steve rolls over and slaps an arm over Billy’s stomach, right in the mess he made. “Not that I regret this, ‘cause I don’t,” he says, caught in a laugh, “but that’s one of the grossest things I’ve ever just stuck my arm in.”

“And it’s all yours, baby,” Billy joshes. Barely, he resists the urge to shove it back in Steve’s face, just to see him panic. “Don’t think anybody’s ever gotten me sex for Christmas before.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, all teeth. His smile fades slowly, replaced with something softer, secretive. “Merry Christmas, Billy.”

All Billy can do is kiss him, _love_ him. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”

-+-

The house isn’t much by Billy’s standards. A two-bedroom bungalow with a front porch facing the street, a palm in the front and a Meyer lemon tree in the backyard, and a white picket fence separating it from the houses on either side. Despite the frequent cut-through traffic, the inside is relatively quiet, aside from when a plane takes off at the nearby airport. No fissures in the walls, no bars on the windows or doors, and actual furniture, even if it does smell musty.

He can cook here, spread out, unpack. This can be his home, until he finds another place. Right now, that feels a long way off—right now, he has a roof over his head, and Steve for the next week, all to himself.

“I can’t believe I’m saying it,” Billy says, falling onto the couch, “but I’m so glad we’re not in a hotel right now.”

“Thank god,” Steve echoes from the kitchen. He comes back with two beers, the only ones remaining from the initial stash in the trunk, and tosses a can to Billy. “No offense, but your car tried to kill me.”

Billy pops the cap and drains half of the can before he speaks, sucking in air. “Sorry we can’t all drive Beemers, hot stuff,” he says, kicking Steve’s thigh with his bare heel. “Some of us gotta take what we got.”

“You could always trade her in,” Steve offers, which—blasphemy. Neil’s money or not, the Camaro is his until the day her transmission gives out in the middle of the 5. “Something new, with better seats, and that doesn’t _bounce_.”

“That’s just the roads.” Billy waves him off. Not like he can help that the entire state sits on top of a fault line, that and the thousands of people hoping to make it big on television clogging up the interstate. “Find me a car with a suspension that’s not gonna rattle, and I’ll think about buying it, deal?”

Chuckling, Steve pats Billy’s knee. “Deal.”

For a blissfully long few minutes, they sit in companionable silence, listening to the cars drive by, to the neighbors chatting in their yard. Another plane flies over; Billy drains the rest of his beer just as Steve starts his. It’s nice, for once, not to hear the radio and the wind whipping through the windows, the occasional shouting next door, tractor trailers downshifting in the middle of the night. Just peace and quiet, shared breaths and all.

“You could live out here,” Billy says, an arm over his face. Steve must be looking at him, judging by how his thighs stiffen underneath his calves. “You could apply to community college, if you wanted. Get your dad off your back, then transfer up once you get your associate’s. Pretty sure your folks would fund the whole thing.”

Steve sucks in air, then exhales, slow and strained. “Wish that didn’t make sense,” he says. Setting the beer aside, he cups Billy’s ankle, fingers wet with condensation. “I don’t… I gotta think about it, man. I can’t just up and leave, it’s not as easy for me. I’ve got Robin, and the kids…”

He knows. Objectively, Billy _knows_ this, but he’s also seen how Steve was last week versus now, how desperate he was just to get out of town, family and friends be damned. They both needed this—still need it, a new life, halfway across the country. Away from the monsters, from the Russians, from the pain of living in two houses, alone and ashamed of who they are, albeit for different reasons.

They need each other—and Billy can’t stand to let Steve go.

“I had to leave Max,” Billy says, somber. He looks out the window, spotting a cat sitting on the windowsill, cleaning its paw. “Hardest thing I’ve ever done is leave her in that house, knowing I couldn’t take her with me. But Susan told me,” he pauses, touching the dual pendants around his neck, “that we’re only an airport away.”

Steve hangs his head back, slumping further into the cushions. “You know, out of half the people in school that told me they’d keep in touch after graduation, I think you and Nancy are the only ones that’ve bothered to like… talk to me. That was supposed to make it easier, if I had no connections. But then everyone showed up, and I love them all, I do, but… All I remember is what happened. I need this, Billy.” A sigh. “Given my way, and I’d stay here.”

Sitting up, Billy cups Steve’s cheek, turning Steve toward him. “Then stay,” he says, final. “We’ll find a way to make it work. Just _stay_.”

“It’s not gonna be that easy,” Steve mumbles, but covers Billy’s hand anyway, fingers dovetailing.

“I don’t care.” Gently, Billy kisses his cheek. “I’m selfish like that.”

A memory flashes across Steve’s face, brightening his eyes ever so slightly. “Take me to the beach first,” he says, verging on an order. “Convince me what’s so great about this state, and I’ll think about it.”

Billy can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, all the way to his eyes. “Oh, you’re in for it, pretty boy.”

-+-

It's too late to go to San Luis Obispo at this time of day. As much as Billy wants to go back where it all started, he opts for Santa Monica instead, solely because of all his childhood memories, this one stands out the most. A day trip with his mother down to the pier, weeks before she left, his hand in hers while they strolled the pier, stopping at stalls and waving to her from the top of the roller coaster.

After that, his trips became more sporadic, to the point where he vaguely remembered the shape of it, of the sounds of the arcade and tourists milling about. He remembers the salt on the waves, though—that, Billy can’t forget.

By the time they make it to the pier, the sun is already on its way down, spilling gold over the horizon. The crowds peter out slowly, dwindling to mostly locals and people attempting to absorb as much of the heat as they can before driving to the airport. Billy, for the most part, stays on the beach, toes in the sand while Steve stands further out, the waves crashing around his feet. Steve could stand to get a tan, he thinks, admiring Steve’s pale skin, exposed for the first time in days. With California comes warmer days and cooler nights, even in the middle of winter.

Billy wouldn’t have it any other way.

“So, you've seen the beach,” Billy says, joining Steve in the water a while later, thumbs tucked in the back pockets of his jeans. Steve stands with his hands on his hips, eyes closed in the face of the sinking sun. He took his eyepatch off—Billy wishes he would keep it off. “And traffic. Good first couple hours?”

“Could’ve gone without the traffic,” Steve says, following with, “I think that’s a minus on the board.”

Billy shakes his head, barely holding back a smirk. “Welcome to the big city, population three million.”

“That’s too many,” Steve whines. “You couldn't’ve been from Atlanta or somewhere? Seattle? I’m sure there’s gotta be like, a two million less in Seattle.”

“No dice.” Billy nudges his shoulder, then slips Steve’s hand into his own, tangling their fingers. “Looks like you’re stuck here with me and the rest of them.”

To that, Steve hums, lips pursed. “This is nice, though, here.” He motions to the ocean with their joined hands, then looks at Billy, eyes half-lidded as he watches Billy’s lips. “With you.”

Billy can’t help but blush at that; Steve keeps him from turning away, a hand to Billy’s cheek, fingers curling around the shell of his ear. “You’re too good for me,” he says, and leans into Steve, hating how much he craves his touch, his warmth, his love. “Too good for everybody, and you picked me.”

“’Cause you’re the best,” Steve says, earnest. He drops a featherlight kiss to Billy’s lips, then chases it with another, until Billy loses himself in it, arms around Steve’s neck while the surf laps at their ankles. The hems of his jeans are soaked—it’s totally worth it. “Probably what’s gonna make this so hard.”

Because Steve has to leave. Steve is leaving him in a week, and he might come back. Desperately, Billy hopes he will, and soon, because living apart might kill him before anything else. “I’m not good with love,” Billy admits, forehead pressed to Steve’s. Steve pets through his hair, tangling in the curls. “All I’m gonna do is hurt you, and you’re gonna hurt me, but if it’s you, then I’ll deal with it. ‘Cause I… God, don’t make me say it.”

“You should totally say it,” Steve says, giddy. “C’mon, tell me how much you love me, Billy.”

Frowning, Billy rakes his nails over Steve’s shoulder. “Don’t make me push you in.”

“Wrong.” Steve sticks his tongue out. “Say it.”

“I’m breaking up with you,” Billy huffs.

“Liar.” Again, Steve kisses him, waiting until Billy softens to let go.

“I love you, alright?” Billy says. Simple, the honest truth. The first time he’s ever said those three words in that order, and to a boy, no less. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Softly, Steve smiles and pulls Billy into an embrace, skin so close that Billy can feel his stuttered heartbeat. “I love you too,” Steve whispers, and holds Billy tighter, shaking with the force. “I’ll find my way back to you, okay? Pretty sure if I mention college, dad’ll ship me out on the first flight out of Indy.”

“Let’s hope,” Billy says. Nose buried in Steve’s throat, he relaxes, rocks in the safety of Steve’s arms. “The pier’s real nice at night. Neon and shit, we should stick around.”

Steve nods, and Billy just holds on. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is finally done, so if y'all read chapter one before I posted chapter two, thanks for continuing to read! If you're here reading this in full, I love y'all just as much! This has been such fun to write but it's taken too much of my time and it just kept winding along OTL. But, I hope y'all enjoy it as much as I do! Y'all mind if I SCREAM. 
> 
> Title is from the Michael Stipe song (which gives me Billy feels like mad.)
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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